1  ■•.•>.,'•. 


swenej^s  j[^u%e^r£ 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY 
CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 


Sea  and  'Bay. 

The  Queen  of  Orplede. 

T>ay  T)reams  of  Qreece. 

Selected  T'oems  of  Qustaf  Fr'dding  (  Translated^ . 

zAnthology  of  Swedish  J^^yrics  (  Translated^ . 

The  J^jrical  'Poems  of  Hugo  "^on  Hofmannsthal  (  Translated') . 


SWEDEN'S   LAUREATE: 

Selected 'Toems  ofVerner  ')>on  Heidenstam. 

'Translated  from  the  Swedish  '\vith  an 
Introduction  by  Qharles  Wharton  Stork. 


NEW  HAVEN   ■   YALE  UNIVERSITY   PRESS 

LONDON   •  HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY   PRESS   •   MDCCCCXIX 


Copyright y  1 9 1  9,  by 
Tale  University  'Press. 


CO 

c 
ja 

'kl 

o 
CO 


To  zMy  Friend 
RICHARD  MÖTT  GUMMERE  \\' 

as  the  twenty-one  year  mile-stone  of 
an  unbroken  friendship  and  fellowship 
this  volume  is  affectionately  dedicated. 


298607 


T^reface  and  zAcknowledgements. 

This  volume  contains  about  one-fourth  of  the 
material  in  Heidenstam's  three  volumes:  Vallfart 
och  Vandringsår,  1888;  Dikter,  1895;  and  Nya 
Dikter,  1915 — all  published  by  Albert  Bonnier, 
Stockholm.  The  translations  are  published  with  the 
personal  approval  and  consent  of  Herr  von  Heiden- 
stam. 

The  translator  hereby  extends  his  thanks  to  the 
proprietors  of  the  following  publications  for  their 
courteous  permission  to  reproduce  such  poems  or 
critical  material  as  first  appeared  in  their  pages: 
Harper  s  Monthly  Magazine,  The  Independent, 
New  York  Nation,  Bookman,  Stratford  Journal, 
Poetry  Journal,  Pagan,  Contemporary  Verse,  and 
Youth. 

More  particular  thanks  is  due  to  the  American- 
Scandinavian  Foundation  for  the  use  of  poems  which 
appeared  in  my  Anthology  of  Swedish  Lyrics  and  in 
the  American-Scandinavian  Review.  To  the  Foun- 
dation I  am  also  indebted  for  a  plebiscite  conducted 
through  the  Stockholm  Dagblad,  to  which  several 
hundred  readers  sent  the  titles  of  their  favorite 
poems.  From  this  contest  Heidenstam  emerged  in  a 
tie  for  second  place  with  Axel  Erik  Karlfeldt,  an- 
other living  poet.  First  place  fell  to  Gustaf  Fröding, 
of  whose  selected  poems  I  have  already  brought  out 
a  volume.  As,  however,  Froding's  charm  lies  so 
peculiarly  in   the  verbal  magic  of   the  Swedish,    I 

7 


believe  that  it  is  possible  to  give  readers  of  English 
a  somewhat  better  account  of  Heidenstam,  who  de- 
pends more  equally  on  form  and  substance.  The 
favorite  single  poem  in  the  plebiscite  was  the  Pil- 
grim's Yule  Song  here  published  for  the  first  time 
in  translation.  The  Dagblad's  list  was  of  great 
assistance  in  making  the  selections  for  this  volume. 
In  details  of  the  work  I  have  been  ably  assisted  by 
the  revision  of  the  reader  of  the  Yale  University 
Press.  Mrs.  A.  B.  Fries  and  Mr.  Edwin  Björk- 
man have  also  helped  with  knotty  passages.  In 
the  Introduction  I  have  made  use  of  material  in 
an  article  by  Miss  Hanna  A.  Larson  in  the  New 
York  Evening  Mail  for  Feb.  16,  1918. 

No  liberties  have  been  taken  with  the  original 
text  except  that  I  have  furnished  separate  titles  to 
the  "Thoughts  in  Loneliness"  so  as  to  assist  the 
reader  in  reference.  The  order  of  the  poems  is  the 
same  as  in  the  Swedish,  except  that  the  "Thoughts 
m  Loneliness"  have  been  shifted  from  before  "The 
Happy  Artists"  to  the  end  of  the  selections  from 
Pilgrimages.  The  metres  and  rhyme-schemes  are 
followed  carefully,  except  in  a  few  minor  instances. 
Although  I  have  endeavored  primarily  to  make  my 
translations  good  English  poetry,  with  no  suggestion 
that  they  are  other  than  first-hand,  I  believe  that  I 
have  been  able  to  follow  the  Swedish  more  closely 
than  in  my  previous  volumes.  In  the  few  prose 
sketches  I  have  tried  to  suggest  the  cadence  as  well 
as  to  give  the  meaning  of  the  Swedish  prose. 
8 


Verse  translation  should  rank  higher  as  an  art 
than  even  the  most  skilful  photography.  It  is  perhaps 
most  like  making  an  engraving  of  a  well-known 
building;  the  translator  may  not  change  the  outlines 
or  add  anything  extraneous,  but  he  must  re-create 
the  beauty  or  majesty  of  his  subject  in  a  new 
medium.  Some  of  the  old-fashioned  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury translations  are  like  picture  post-cards  compared 
to  the  vital  and  delicate  renderings  that  recent  Eng- 
lish masters  have  attained.  As  form  is  so  much  an 
essential  of  poetry,  the  test  of  verse  translation 
should  be  very  largely  that  applied  to  original  work. 
I  realize  that  this  statement  is  in  the  nature  of  a 
challenge,  but  I  had  rather  be  condemned  as  an 
inferior  poet  than  approved  as  a  good  copyist. 

CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK. 

"Birdwood,"  Philadelphia. 


A  SONG  TO  HEIDENSTAM 

Voice  of  Sweden's  land  and  men, 

Heidenstam ! 

Rouse  thy  people  once  again, 

Heidenstam ! 

Sing  the  splendor  of  her  past. 

Legend-glory  dim  and  vast, 

Heidenstam,  Heidenstam! 

Sing  her  forests  dark  and  deep, 

Heidenstam ! 

Sing  her  long  white  winter  sleep, 

Heidenstam ! 

Then  with  tones  prophetic  sing 

All  the  rapture  of  her  spring, 

Heidenstam,  Heidenstam ! 

Sing  the  Northland  bold  and  free, 

Heidenstam ! 

Sing  the  wonders  that  shall  be, 

Heidenstam ! 

Sing  of  Sweden's  heart  and  mind 

Aiding,  heartening  all  mankind, 

Heidenstam,  Heidenstam ! 


11 


rne  TO€TTir  of  ve%2^Ti 

1. 

* 

The  English-reading  countries  of  the  world,  more 
particularly  the  United  States,  have  in  the  late  dec- 
ade or  so  been  growing  rapidly  cosmopolitan.  This 
has  come  about  from  the  increase  of  culture  through 
education  and  travel,  from  the  growth  of  immigra- 
tion and  commerce,  and  of  late,  naturally,  from  the 
war.  Never  have  Americans  given  nearly  such  atten- 
tion to  contemporary  foreign  literature  as  they  have 
been  giving  recently.  The  situation  is  analogous  to 
that  of  Elizabethan  England,  when  everyone  was 
talking  about  the  latest  French  or  Italian  or  Spanish 
writer ;  and  the  auguries  are  fair  that  this  country 
may  be  developing  a  Renaissance  of  art  that  will  far 
outstrip  our  somewhat  meager  achievements  in  the 
past. 

With  this  remarkable  stimulus  of  interest  in 
European  and  even  Asiatic  literature,  it  seems  purely 
an  accident  that  our  attention  has  only  very  tardily 
been  directed  to  the  beauties  of  Swedish  poetry.  In 
the  influx  of  foreign  books,  novels  have  led  the  way : 
Russian,  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  and  South  Ameri- 
can novels.  Plays,  too,  have  been  arriving  to  a  con- 
siderable extent.  But  even  foreign  poets,  thanks  to 
recent  advances  in  the  art  of  verse  translation,  have 
in  many  cases  gained  a  foothold  here.    We  have  only 

13 


to  think  of  Tagore,  Verhaeren,  Vildrac,  Carducci, 
and  Dario.  People  have  heard  the  names  at  least. 
The  pioneer  of  modern  Scandinavian  authors  was 
the  Norwegian,  Henrik  Ibsen,  but  he  was  soon  fol- 
lowed by  the  Swedes,  August  Strindberg  and  Selma 
Lagerlöf.  Now  that  the  Swedish  play  and  the 
Swedish  novel  have  won  their  place,  we  should  be 
quite  ready  for  the  entrance  of  Swedish  poetry. 

There  are  many  reasons  why  this  poetry  should 
appeal  particularly  to  American  readers.  In  the 
first  place,  it  may  well  trust  to  its  intrinsic  merits. 
Critics  such  as  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  who  are  con- 
versant with  the  best  in  nearly  every  literature,  agree 
that  Swedish  narrative  and  lyric  poetry  during  the 
last  hundred  and  fifty  years  will  compare  favorably, 
both  in  form  and  substance,  with  the  poetry  of  any 
literature  during  a  like  period.  There  are  at  least 
nine  poets  of  a  rank  similar  to  that  of  Burns,  Byron, 
Shelley,  Browning,  and  Poe.  Furthermore,  the 
Scandinavian  genius  is  closely  akin  to  us;  it  has  the 
same  seriousness,  the  same  vigor,  the  same  nobility 
of  feeling.  With  a  fine  range  of  imagination  it 
combines  a  closeness  to  earth  which  conveys  a  dis- 
tinctively national  flavor. 

'  The  Swede,  having  tilled  his  ancestral  soil  for 
longer  than  any  other  European  race,  has  the  deepest 
attachment  to  it  and  has  furthermore  inherited  a 
treasure  of  legend  and  historic  association.  Love  of 
nature  is  an  almost  universal  trait,  ae-ts-resflfied  by 
tb^-spiettditHatTdscape  paintings  wTiich'WCTrTeecntiy 
14 


exhibited  rn-this  ee«fttry.  Added  to  these  qualities, 
the  Swede  is  usually  a  traveled,  cultivated  man,  well 
grounded  in  the  classics  and  apt  in  picking  up  modern 
languages.  His  success  in  engineering  and  other 
forms  of  modern  industry  shows  him  to  be  alert  and 
thoroughly  up  to  the  times.  He  has  also  been  quick 
to  face  modern  social  problems:  feminism,  class 
privilege,  and  internationalism.  In  short,  the  Swede 
is  worth  knowing  and  worth  hearing.  He  is  pro- 
ficient in  all  the  arts;  in  music,  painting,  sculpture, 
and  literature ;  but  native  and  foreign  observers  unite 
in  maintaining  that  he  probably  shows  himself  best 
in  poetry. 

As  to  the  fact  that  we  have  remained  so  long 
ignorant  of  Swedish  verse,  it  can  only  be  said,  "the 
more's  the  pity."  Many  people  have  known  of  this 
hidden  treasure.  A  century  ago  Goethe,  and  a  gen- 
eration afterwards  Longfellow,  admired  the  genius 
of  Tegnér,  and  the  latter  translated  one  of  his  best 
poems.  Runeberg,  ranked  as  one  of  the  world's 
greatest  patriotic  poets,  has  been  frequently,  though 
seldom  adequately,  done  into  English.  The  Ency- 
clopedia Britannica  also  gives  separate  biographies  to 
Bellman,  Snoilsky,  Viktor  Rydberg,  and  Levertin. 
Theodore  Roosevelt  in  his  Autobiography  tells  us 
that  he  found  time  to  read  and  enjoy  the  works  of 
Topelius.  Scholars  have  always  known  about 
Swedish  poetry,  but  this  knowledge  has  never  hap- 
pened to  become  popular.  Verse  rendition  from 
Swedish  to  English  is  not  especially  difficult,  as  the 

15 


principles  of  rhythm  and  stanza  are  the  same  for 
both  literatures,  but  satisfactory  translations  have 
never  happened  to  be  made. 

Another  excuse  for  the  delayed  recognition  of 
Svv^edish  poetry  is  the  fact  that  it  has  only  very 
recently  attained  its  zenith.  Out  of  nine  or  ten  stars 
of  the  first  magnitude,  six  have  arisen  since  1870, 
and  four  of  these  since  1888.  Although  Heidenstam 
is  unquestionably  the  most  important  living  poet  of 
Sweden,  E.  A.  Karlfeldt  is  not  far  behind  him,  vv^ith 
his  deep,  quaintly  humorous,  but  very  delicately 
wrought  lyrics  of  nature  and  peasant  life.  Besides 
these  two  there  are  Daniel  Fallström,  K.  G.  Ossian- 
nilsson,  Oscar  Stjerne,  Bertel  Gripenberg,  and  a 
dozen  others  of  noteworthy  attainments,  some  of 
them  young  enough  to  promise  great  things  for  the 
future. 

2. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  we  have  had  to  make 
so  long  a  preamble  before  coming  to  our  immediate 
subject,  but  we  have  had  to  face  the  truth  that  most 
otherwise  well-informed  persons  have  never  heard 
the  name  of  a  single  Swedish  poet.  Nothing  could 
be  more  unjust,  in  speaking  of  the  merits  of  Heiden- 
stam, than  to  give  the  impression  that  he  is  the  only, 
or  even  the  greatest,  master  his  country  has  produced. 
The  present  writer  has  recently  brought  out  an 
anthology  of  translations  which,  though  by  no  means 
widely  inclusive,  contains  lyrics  by  forty-five  poets. 
To  this  work  the  reader  is  referred  for  further  illus- 
16 


tration  and  details  on  the  subject  of  Swedish  poetry 
in  general. 

Fortunately,  Verner  von  Heidenstam  is  such  an 
individual  genius  that  we  can  sketch  his  immediate 
literary  background  very  briefly.  Between  1850  and 
1870  Swedish  poetry  languished  in  a  sort  of  mid- 
Victorian  back-water.  About  the  latter  date  a  new 
vitality  came  into  being  with  the  work  of  Viktor 
Rydberg  and  Count  Snoilsky.  Rydberg  sent  a  glow 
of  humanity  into  his  classic  and  philosophic  lyrics. 
Snoilsky,  beginning  with  a  colorful  volume  of  Italian 
poems,  developed  from  an  aesthete  into  a  democrat, 
writing  ballads  from  Swedish  history  and  affirming 
the  doctrine  that  art  should  minister  to  the  hungry 
multitude,  not  to  "culture's  overladen  boards."  The 
popular  impulse  which  appeared  to  a  modified  degree 
in  the  poetry  of  Rydberg  and  Snoilsky  was  exhibited 
as  the  crudest  and  most  violent  realism  in  the  novels 
and  plays  of  August  Strindberg,  who  held  the  center 
of  the  literary  stage  during  the  eighties. 

Thus  it  was  upon  a  field  of  combat  that  Heiden- 
stam made  his  debut  with  his  first  volume  of  poems 
in  1888.  The  old  sentimentalism  had  largely  dis- 
appeared and  a  fierce  war  was  being  waged  between 
the  extreme,  unmitigated  realists  and  the  new,  more 
vital  idealists.  Into  this  combat  Heidenstam  at  once 
plunged  on  the  side  of  the  idealists  along  with  two 
other  distinguished  poets,  Gustaf  Fröding  and  Oscar 
Levertin. 

Fröding  is  at  once  the  Burns  and  the  Heine  of 

17 


Swedish  poetry ;  he  not  onlj^  represents  with  inimita- 
ble spirit  the  life  of  the  peasant,  he  can  also — in 
moods  ranging  from  whimsical  humor  to  deep  pathos 
— reveal  the  tragedy  of  his  own  brief  career.  This 
most  brilliant  of  Swedish  poets,  who  is  still  today 
the  idol  of  his  countrymen,  broke  down  from  dissipa- 
tion in  1898  and,  though  he  recovered  his  reason  and 
lived  on  until  1911,  never  regained  the  lost  magic 
of  his  art.  Oscar  Levertin,  of  Spanish-Jewish  de- 
scent, has  a  more  mystical  and  aesthetic  bent.  He  is 
the  typical  poet  of  the  ivory  tower,  a  notable  critic 
and  finished  stylist,  whose  ill  health  gave  his  imagina- 
tion a  somewhat  morbid  tinge.  He  died  in  1906. 
The  genius  of  Heidenstam,  if  not  the  most  dazzling, 
has  at  least  proved  itself  the  most  healthy  and  robust 
of  the  group.  Though  he  was  the  eldest  of  the 
three,  he  has  survived  them  both  and  still  preserves 
his  full  physical  and  mental  powers. 


We  now  pass  to  the  external  events  of  Heiden- 
stam's  life.  He  was  born  July  6,  1859,  of  noble 
family,  in  southern  Sweden,  the  seat  of  one  of  the 
earliest  continuous  civilizations  in  Europe.  Families 
of  that  region  trace  back  their  descent  a  thousand 
years  or  so  and  reach  no  record  of  having  come  from 
anywhere  else.  The  landscape  is  mostly  Hat,  but 
broken  by  many  lakes  and  largely  covered  by  the 
wild  forest  of  Tiveden.  Within  sight  of  the  poet's 
18 


present  home  stands  the  castle  of  Vadstena,  built  by 
Gustaf  Vasa.  It  is  here,  in  the  midst  of  ancestral 
traditions,  that  Heidenstam  has  been  living  for  the 
past  thirty  years. 

As  a  boy  the  poet  was  shy  and  a  great  reader, 
especially  of  poetry  and  battle  stories.  Like  Roose- 
velt he  w^as  an  admirer  of  Topelius,  as  well  as  of 
the  narrative  poets  Tegnér  and  Runeberg,  and  the 
dramatic,  but  rather  overstrained  lyrist,  Lidner.  At 
school  he  was  fondest  of  Latin  and  geography. 
When  sixteen  years  old  he  had  a  nervous  illness  and 
by  the  doctor's  advice  was  sent  to  the  South,  where 
he  sojourned  mainly  in  Italy,  Greece,  and  the  Orient, 
His  wanderings  lasted  many  years  with  occasional 
visits  home,  during  one  of  which  he  was  married. 
Finally,  impressed  by  the  visual  beauty  of  the  scenes 
in  which  he  lived,  Heidenstam  resolved  to  become  a 
painter  and,  despite  the  dissuasion  of  his  family,  went 
to  Paris  and  studied  for  a  time  under  Gerome. 
Though  he  enjoyed  the  care-free  life  he  was  dis- 
satisfied with  being  only  able,  as  he  felt,  to  touch 
the  surface  of  things. 

He  longed  for  home  but,  having  become  estranged 
from  his  family,  he  was  obliged  to  remain  an  exile. 
In  a  fit  of  discouragement  he  isolated  himself  from 
the  world  at  the  old  castle  of  Brunegg  in  Switzer- 
land. Here  he  saw  no  one  but  his  wife  and  occa- 
sionally Strindberg.  At  last,  however,  his  real  talent 
came  to  light,  and  amid  these  gloomy  surroundings 
Heidenstam  composed  a  series  of  dramatic  poems  and 

19 


poetic  sketches  which  fairly  glowed  with  the  warmth 
and  color  of  Paris,  Italy,  and  the  East.  In  1887  he 
was  summoned  home  to  the  death-bed  of  his  father 
and  in  1888  his  poems  were  published  under  the  title. 
Pilgrimages  and  Wanderyears. 

Heidenstam's  first  book,  despite  the  fact  that  it 
was  considered  "exotic"  and  "peculiar,"  had  a  bril- 
liant success;  it  was  in  fact  pronounced  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  debuts  in  Swedish  literature.  Of 
the  poetry  in  itself  we  shall  speak  later.  Suffice  it 
here  to  say  that  Heidenstam,  no  longer  in  doubt  as 
to  his  true  vocation,  settled  down  once  more  in  his 
native  region  to  fulfill  his  artistic  destiny.  From 
then  on  his  life  has  been  the  succession  of  prose  and 
poetry  volumes  that  came  from  his  pen. 

Heidenstam's  next  important  book,  the  novel 
Hans  Alienus,  was  another  succession  of  travel-pic- 
tures through  which  the  hero  passes  in  search  of  his 
ideal.  This  he  partly  finds  on  his  return  to  Sweden 
in  the  worship  of  a  simple  and  austere  beauty.  His 
life,  however,  appears  to  him  to  be  a  negation,  a 
sacrifice  of  being  to  the  desire  of  merely  knowing. 

In  his  Poems,  published  in  1895,  Heidenstam 
comes  much  nearer  to  finding  himself.  These  are 
alternately  narrative,  descriptive,  and  reflective,  and 
are  nearly  all  about  Sweden.  There  is  a  concentra- 
tion, a  firmness,  a  strength  in  them  as  of  Antaeus  in 
contact  with  his  mother  earth.  The  same  spirit  per- 
vades his  collections  of  tales  from  Swedish  history 
and  legend,  works  which  by  their  vivid  and  forceful 
20 


style  ranked  their  author  as  hig:h  in  prose  as  he 
already  stood  in  poetry.  The  most  popular  of  his 
prose  works  is  Karolinerna,  a  group  of  tales  which 
depict  the  heroism  of  the  Swedish  people  under 
Charles  XII. 

His  third  poetical  volume,  Nezu  Poems,  appeared 
in  1915.  This  contains  a  majority  of  the  lyrics  for 
which  he  is  most  beloved,  which  have  made  his  name 
nearly  synonymous  with  Sweden  in  the  hearts  of  his 
five  and  a  half  million  compatriots.  These  poems 
are  like  a  trumpet-call  to  his  people,  a  summons  to 
awake  and  renew  in  the  present  the  glories  of  the 
past.  Heidenstam's  former  doubts  and  struggles  are 
largely  replaced  by  a  calm  dignity  of  outlook.  The 
self-centered  man  has  forgotten  his  despondency  by 
merging  himself  into  the  larger  soul  of  his  country. 
He  sings: 

O  thou,  our  native  land,  our  larger  home. 
Weave  of  our  lives  thy  glory  and  thy  blessing! 


To  those  familiar  with  his  claims  to  the  honor, 
it  came  as  no  surprise  that  in  1916  Heidenstam  was 
awarded  the  Nobel  Prize  for  Literature.  Where 
indeed  is  there  in  Europe  today  a  writer  of  more 
sincerity  and  inborn  originality?  To  be  sure  he  is  by 
no  means  always  easy  to  follow.  His  style  is  com- 
pressed and  abrupt.     With  his  intense,  imaginative, 

21 


and  penetrating  mind,  he  is  perhaps  most  like  Brown- 
ing. He  does  not,  however,  often  complicate  his 
poetry  with  parentheses  or  diffuse  himself  in  abstract 
speculation.  With  a  painter's  eye,  he  is  consistently 
visual. 

We  shall  best  appreciate  his  work  by  determin- 
ing his  artistic  creed.  The  present  writer  has  else- 
where denominated  him  an  "imaginative  realist," 
but  Heidenstam  might  properly  resent  being  called 
a  realist  of  any  sort.  Above  all  things  he  abhors 
uninspired  naturalism;  "gray-weather  moods,"  he 
calls  it.  To  his  thinking  Strindberg  merely  "let  the 
cellar  air  escape  through  the  house."  He  likewise 
repudiates  pessimism  no  less  than  sentimentalism. 
Yet,  he  is  no  dodger  of  issues,  no  apostle  of  easy 
acquiescence.  The  solution  of  this  apparent  anomaly 
is  that  what  Heidenstam  seeks  is  not  external  fact 
but  underlying  truth.  He  wrestles  with  life  for  the 
deeper  meaning  of  life.  We  may  therefore  call  him 
an  applied  idealist,  or  perhaps  better  still,  a  vitalist. 

Taking  his  three  poetical  volumes  in  detail,  we 
can  observe  Heidenstam  gradually  winning  his  mas- 
tery over  art  and  life.  In  the  Pilgrimages  we  dis- 
cover not  mere  description,  but  a  series  of  striking 
ideas  powerfully  presented.  Like  most  youthful 
poets,  Heidenstam  attacks  superficiality,  hypocrisy, 
and  narrow  moral  restrictions.  Most  typical  is  the 
poem  where  Mahmoud  Khan  reveals  by  a  blow  of 
his  sword  that  the  people's  god  is  the  priests'  money- 
chest.  The  chief  inspiration  of  the  volume  lies  in 
22 


its  positive  revelation  of  beauty;  not  of  remote, 
ethereal  beauty,  however,  but  of  the  beauty  of  actual, 
or  vividly  imagined  scenes  and  people;  the  beauty 
perceived  by  the  artist,  though  it  may  seem  inex- 
tricably mingled  with  ugliness. 

Besides  this,  we  are  struck  by  an  unusual  dramatic 
sense.  Heldenstam  knows  how  to  develop  a  stirring 
narrative  up  to  an  inevitable,  but  often  unexpected 
conclusion.  As  in  the  novels  of  George  Meredith, 
the  climaxes  are  often  apparent  anti-climaxes,  as 
when  in  "Djufar's  Song"  the  old  poet  is  so  overcome 
by  the  beauty  of  an  oriental  morning  that  he  can  only 
express  it  in  weeping.  The  imagery  is  often  daring, 
as  when  a  negro's  lips  are  compared  to  the  crimson 
gash  on  a  wine  skin,  but  such  realistic  details  are  only 
used  to  verify  the  central  idea.  For  instance,  the 
negro  just  referred  to  is  not  made  ultimately  to  for- 
feit our  sympathy ;  he  becomes  for  us  not  a  comic  or 
degraded  man,  but  simply  an  actual  man.  Heiden- 
stam,  though  one  of  the  most  daringly  earnest  of 
poets,  is  sufficiently  an  artist  to  relieve  his  style  by 
touches  of  humor  and  of  the  deeper  sort  of  romance. 

The  most  frequent  motive  of  the  oriental  poems 
and  poetic-prose  sketches  is  the  duty  of  enjoying  the 
moment,  of  living  and  not  spending  one's  youth  in 
getting  ready  to  live.  It  is  thus  that  Heidenstam 
interprets  the  text:  Take  no  thought  for  the  mor- 
row! In  "The  Fig-Tree"  he  pictures  Christ  as 
ministering  to  the  immediate  wants  of  the  disciples, 
while  Judas  hastens  away,  reflecting  that  with  thirty 

23 


more  pieces  of  silver  he  will  be  able  to  buy  a  house 
and  settle  down  as  a  man  of  property.  There  is  a 
democratic  impulse  in  Heidenstam's  philosophy  of 
pleasure,  a  belief  that  a  true  symposium  begets  fra- 
ternity: 

As  like  brothers, 

Sharing  the  loaf  and  the  goat-skin  flask,  we  are  sit- 
ting together. 

In  the  convivial  air  sprouts  the  seed  from  which  may 
in  secret 

Grow  the  all-brothering  hour. 

The  idea  has  been  followed,  whether  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  by  the  French  poet  Charles  Vildrac 
in  his  piece  "The  Two  Drinkers." 

Most  of  the  poems  in  Pilgrimages  and  Wander- 
years  are  objective  narratives,  but  the  "Thoughts  in 
Solitude"  consist  of  short,  personal  lyrics  in  an  intro- 
spective, often  gloomy  vein  which  Heidenstam  has 
never  ceased  to  cultivate.  We  find  him  in  these 
"Thoughts"  as  an  agnostic  boldly  searching  for,  as 
he  puts  it,  the  "spark"  that  "dwells  deep  wn'thin  his 
soul."  Some  of  these  searchings  will  shock  the 
orthodox,  but  they  reveal  with  wonderful  insight  the 
depths  of  the  poet's  inmost  nature.  The  ecclesiastical 
dogma  of  the  atonement  is  repugnant  to  his  man- 
hood ;  he  wishes  to  suffer  in  person  for  whatever 
wrong  he  has  committed.  He  will  not  pray  on  his 
death-bed  to  a  hypothetical  god  or  to  "deaf  Nature," 
24 


but  to  his  living  fellow-men  that  they  may  forgive 
him  as  he  forgives  them.  Above  all  we  learn  here 
that  through  all  his  wanderings  the  deepest  passion 
of  Heidenstam's  heart  was  for  Sweden,  especially 
because  of  its  early  associations, 

The  stones  where  as  a  child  I  used  to  play. 

He  longs  to  be  worthy  of  his  heritage,  to  give  his 
life  for  some  sacred  cause.  He  believes  it  is  only 
in  moments  of  great  exaltation  that  we  really  live. 

In  the  Poems,  which  appeared  seven  years  later, 
the  development  of  the  poet  is  extremely  marked. 
We  find  the  same  sincere,  penetrative  self-analysis 
as  before,  but  it  is  a  far  larger  self  that  Heidenstam 
now  has  to  offer.  He  has  found  his  great  cause,  has 
made  himself  a  part  of  his  country,  its  past  glories 
and  its  present  problems.  It  is  most  characteristic 
that,  with  all  his  devotion  to  his  native  district,  he 
describes  both  landscape  and  people  in  the  most 
unflinching  terms. 

The  peasant  bites  at  his  black  rye  cake. 
And  loose  stones  rattle  beneath  his  plough. 
How  gray,  how  clad  in  joylessness 
Are  all  of  the  scenes  that  meet  me ! 
My  native  soil,  in  the  ragged  dress 
Of  poverty  you  greet  me. 

Heidenstam  sees  his  country  as  it  is  but  does  not 
love  one  whit  the  less  for  seeing  it  so  veraciously. 
Besides  descriptive  and  reflective  pieces,  the  Poems 

25 


include  three  very  notable  longer  compositions.  The 
first  is  the  "Pilgrim's  Song"  reprinted  from  Hans 
Alienus.  This  poem  symbolizes  the  way  in  which 
Alienus  (or  Heidenstam)  has  become  lost  in  the 
"world  of  shadows"  through  which  his  travels  led 
him.  With  deep  imaginative  truth  the  poet  depicts 
the  mind  which  has  been  so  filled  with  visions  of 
the  past  that  the  present  becomes  unmeaning  and 
unreal.  The  compressed  description  and  beautiful 
handling  of  a  difficult  stanza  form  render  the  poem 
in  all  respects  a  masterpiece. 

More  unusual  is  the  long  narrative  "Childhood 
Friends."  The  story  of  the  girl  who  breaks  her 
engagement  with  the  man  she  loves  because,  after  a 
long  separation,  she  finds  herself  too  old  for  him,  is 
partly  paralleled  by  the  case  of  Louise  Smith  in 
Edgar  Lee  Masters'  Spoon  River  Anthology. 

Herbert  broke  our  engagement  of  eight  years 

When  Annabelle  returned  to  the  village 

From  the  Seminary,  ah  me ! 

If  I  had  let  my  love  for  him  alone 

It  might  have  grown  into  a  beautiful  sorrow — 

In  Heidenstam's  poem  the  heroine  does  just  what 
Louise  Smith  should  have  done,  she  lets  her  love 
grow  into  a  beautiful  sorrow.  There  is,  further- 
more, a  courage  in  the  Swedish  woman's  renuncia- 
tion which  is  no  less  memorable  because  it  is  so  quiet. 
But  the  most  original  passage  of  the  poem  is  where 
26 


the  hero,  disillusioned  after  one  of  his  amours, 
attacks  relentlessly  the  glorification  of  sensual  love. 
Care  must  be  taken  to  regard  the  brutal  downright- 
ness  of  this  speech  for  exactly  what  it  is,  i.e.,  the 
tirade  of  an  undeceived  sentimentalist. 

The  noblest  poem  of  the  volume  is  "Singers  from 
the  Steeple."  After  the  (as  we  should  now  call 
him)  Bolshevist  husband  has  in  his  imagination  rung 
in  destruction  for  the  race  of  tyrant  money-lords,  his 
wife  in  turn  mounts  to  the  steeple.  She  beholds  not 
"savage  and  weaponed  men"  or  "kindled  cities 
aflame,"  which  would  be  but  a  repetition  of  former 
evils,  but  a  festal  "brothering-day"  of  mutual  for- 
bearance and  love,  with  the  motto: 

Not  joy  to  the  rich,  to  the  poor  man  care; 
Our  toil  and  our  pleasure  alike  we  share. 

Other  types  and  themes  are  included  in  the  Poems. 
There  are  historical  and  imaginative  narratives  rem- 
iniscent of  his  earlier  work.  In  "The  Cradle-Songs 
of  Goldilocks"  he  approaches  the  folk-song  quality 
of  Fröding,  though  with  much  more  sophistication. 
The  short  lyrics  of  self-scrutiny  continue,  in  a  tone 
that  would  be  morbid  except  for  its  intensity.  Hei- 
denstam's  increase  of  mastery  is  mainly  shown  in  his 
contact  with  the  Sweden  of  today. 

After  a  long  interval  filled  with  prose  works, 
appeared  in  1915  the  New  Poems.  In  these  we  find 
that  Heidenstam  has  evolved  from  an  inspired 
thinker  to  a  leader.     His  style,  wholly  lucid   and 

27 


direct,  has  assumed  a  ring  of  command.  His  words 
awaken  now  not  merely  admiration,  but  enthusiasm. 
Without  his  saying  so,  we  feel  in  him  the  quality  of 
St,  Paul  affirming:  "I  have  fought  the  good  fight,  I 
have  kept  the  faith."  In  him  is  the  just  self-confi- 
dence of  the  man  who  is  "the  captain  of  his  soul." 
He  has  found  a  deeper  joy  than  pleasure.  "Happi- 
ness is  a  woman's  jewel,"  he  says. 

Gods  remorseless,  fates  unsparing. 
Scanty  bread — aye,  that  's  the  cruel. 
Bracing  life  for  men. 

It  is  the  man  behind  the  poem  that  has  won  a 
nation  for  his  audience.  When  he  adjures  his  fellow- 
-countrymen to  emulate  the  deeds  of  their  ancestors 
in  the  modern  fields  "of  science  and  art  and  letters," 
he  is  heeded  because  he  has  himself  shown  the  way. 
There  are  no  finer  modern  poems  of  patriotism  than 
the  series  entitled  "A  People,"  where  Heidenstam 
prays  for  years  of  misfortune  to  "smite  us  and  lash 
us  into  one."  It  is  the  fighting  optimist  who  inveighs 
against  weighing  men  in  a  money-scale  and  dividing 
the  head  of  the  nation  from  the  heart,  and  it  is  he 
again  who  in  "A  Day"  bids  the  new-born  day 

Send,  lightning-like,  a  spirit  sword 
To  flash  the  road  before  us. 

There  are  still  gloomy  pieces  in  this  last  volume. 
These  are,  however,  relieved  by  poems  of  reconcilia- 
28 


tion  and  tolerance.  From  the  vantage-ground  of 
maturity  Heidenstam  can  look  back  and  behold 
where 

the  realm  of  jouth  once  more  is  gleaming 
Strewn  as  erst  with  light  and  morning  dew. 

He  can  in  imagination  look  down  at  the  world  after 
his  death  and  perceive  that 

true  and  noble  creeds 
Even  on  my  foemen's  shields  are  blazoned  clear. 

That  the  man  is  not  other  than  his  work  is  borne 
witness  to  by  all  who  know  him.  He  is  over  six 
feet  in  height  and  powerfully  built,  with  strongly- 
marked  aquiline  features.  A  man  who  never  valued 
fame  for  its  own  sake,  he  is  in  the  least  possible 
danger  of  being  weakened  by  success.  Generous  to 
all  but  himself,  he  is  in  especial  the  patron  of  all 
promising  literary  aspirants. 


Little  has  been  said  of  Heidenstam's  poetic  style 
except  that  it  is  intense,  colorful,  and  abrupt.  In  a 
sense  Heidenstam  at  first  seems  to  have  no  style,  for 
he  is  so  swept  along  by  the  current  of  compelling 
inspiration  that  he  has  little  time  to  stop  for  decora- 
tive embellishment.  He  is  one  of  the  most  com- 
pressed of  poets;  often  indeed  he  runs  the  risk  of 
being  too  compressed.     And  yet,  as  said  before,  he 

29 


never  fails  to  make  an  attentive  reader  behold  a 
landscape  or  grasp  a  dramatic  situation.  With  a  few 
impressionistic  touches  he  both  actualizes  and  indi- 
vidualizes a  situation.  Take,  for  example,  the  pic- 
ture of  a  galley  setting  forth  at  sunset  over  the  calm 
Mediterranean: 

Slow^ly  she  rowed  far  out  against  the  sun 
And  vanished  on  the  mirror  of  the  sea. 

His  imagery  is  extraordinarily  direct  and  first-hand, 
as  in 

Four  quick  metallic  blows,  like  wing-beats  close  to 
each  other. 

Whether  it  be  a  description  of  the  Orient  or  the 
presentation  of  some  complex  spiritual  emotion,  Hei- 
denstam's  interpretative  genius  rises  alike  to  the  occa- 
sion in  giving  our  senses  the  very  feel  of  what  he 
presents.  As  we  have  noted,  he  never  rejects  a 
homely  or  even  a  grotesque  figure  if  it  suits  his  pur- 
pose, as  in  the  comparison  of  Jerusalem  with  its 
walls  and  cupolaed  houses  to  a  basket  of  eggs.  In 
imagery  Heidenstam  ranks  with  the  greatest  poets 
and  need  not  even  shun  comparison  with  Dante. 

In  his  verse-form  Heidenstam,  like  Browning,  lets 
his  verbal  music  be  too  much  overruled  by  his  sub- 
stance. He  sticks  almost  always  to  rhyme  and  to  a 
regular  metric  foot,  but  his  variation  of  stanza- 
scheme  and  of  the  length  of  his  line  is  at  times  con- 
fusing and  rather  too  casual.  One  would  like  to 
30 


have  a  clearer  pattern,  to  become  used  to  a  definite 
stanza  and  lose  oneself  in  the  rhythm.  However, 
Heidenstam's  type  of  "freed  verse,"  as  the  French 
call  it,  is  not  unsuited  to  his  abrupt  changes  of 
thought.  Heidenstam  is  said  to  resemble  Byron  in 
having  a  poor  ear  for  music.  Without  striking  the 
reader  as  either  harsh  or  unskilful,  he  is  certainly 
below  the  average  of  the  best  Swedish  poets  in 
melodic  beauty.  Not  many,  even  of  the  great  poets, 
can  combine  all  felicities. 

After  our  survey  of  Heidenstam's  poetry  we  may 
naturally  ask  in  how  far  his  message  may  carry  to 
the  world  at  large.  May  not  this  largely  patriotic 
master  be  of  importance  only  to  those  of  his  own 
speech  and  land  ?  To  this  we  answer  that  there  is 
nothing  which  Heidenstam  writes  for  Sweden  that 
is  not  almost  equally  applicable  to  any  other  country. 

The  problems  he  deals  with,  whether  national  or 
personal,  are  our  problems.  As  one  of  the  great 
fighting  minds  of  this  generation,  he  cannot  fail  to 
inspire  all  earnest  thinkers  with  whom  he  comes  in 
contact.  Furthermore  he  is  a  great  artist  in  present- 
ing vivid  scenes  from  the  human  drama,  both  sub- 
jective and  objective.  He  boldly  represents  life  as 
he  knows  it  in  the  light  of  a  militant,  optimistic 
imagination.  It  can  therefore  hardly  be  doubted 
that,  wherever  his  poetry  can  be  made  accessible,  he 
will  exercise  a  quickening  and  exalting  influence 
at  least  equal  to  that  of  any  poet  now  writing. 


31 


THE  MOGUL'S  ROYAL  RING.  Royal  Ring 

The  Mogul's  ring  had  been  missing 
A  hundred  years  and  more. 
They  sought  it,  never  ceasing, 
They  sought  the  city  o'er. 

To  Hafed,  then,  the  sweeper, 
The  story  came  one  day. 
He  dropped  his  rubbish-barrel 
And  left  it  where  it  lay. 
"The  barrel  grows  more  heavy 
With  every  year,"  he  said. 
"I'll  seek  the  royal  signet 
And  set  it  on  my  head!" 

With  mattock,  spade  and  pick-axe 
He  sought  it  day  and  night. 
Alas!  the  golden  signet — 
He  brought  it  ne'er  to  light. 
When  round  his  house  at  sunrise 
He  stole  with  trembling  legs. 
The  crowd  would  come  and  pelt  at 
His  back  with  rotten  eggs. 

He  wept,  he  prayed,  he  dug  still, 
But  when  at  night  he'd  lay 
His  turban  by  to  bathe  him. 
His  youthful  hair  was  gray. 

Umballa,  Hafed 's  brother, 

35 


Royal  Ring  Lay  meanwhile  in  the  square, 
Sunned  him  like  any  other, 
And  rubbed  his  shoulders  there. 
He  snored  mid  swarms  of  midges. 
He  smiled  to  watch  the  fleas ; 
He  looked  around  and  slapped,  though, 
When  gadflies  came  to  tease. — 
He  bought  then  for  four  coppers 
The  barrel,  if  you  please. 

The  luckless  folk  who  neared  him 
Would  hold  their  noses  tight; 
The  doors,  as  if  they  feared  him, 
Would  shut  in  sudden  fright ; 
The  huckster's  fruit  all  scudded 
In  haste  behind  his  bench: 
Because  that  barrel  flooded 
The  quarter  with  its  stench. 

Outside  the  town  he  quickly 
Turned  upside  down  the  thing. 
There  lay,  half-hid  in  sickly 
Old  cabbage-leaves,  the  ring!! 

A  hundred  years  'twas  missing 
Despite  all  search,  and  now 
Behold!  it  crowned,  caressing, 
Umballa's  dusky  brow. 

Then  through  the  horse-shoe  gateways 
A  festal  throng  poured  out. 
36  ~ 


The  baker, — who  had  nightly  Royal  Ring 

Seen  visions  all  about, 

Who  dreamt  he  found  the  ring  in 

The  middle  of  his  dough, 

Nor  ceased  till  through  the  window 

The  morning  sun  would  glow, — 

Left  bread  i'  th'  oven,  sprang  out 

And  strewed  with  all  his  might 

The  flour  from  his  trough  there 

Till  all  the  road  was  white. 

The  smith,  who  erst  had  brooded, 

His  hammer  at  his  foot. 

So  gladly  smote  the  anvil 

The  air  was  thick  with  soot. 

The  cloth-merchant,  who  mid  pipe-smoke 

Had  seemed  so  pale  before, 

Now  piled  brocades  and  silks  on 

His  beast  in  goodly  store. 

He  came  and  decked  the  barrel 

In  fig-leaf  garlands  green. 

Then  laid  on  pearls  and  rubies 

And  cloth  of  richest  sheen. 

And  high  thereon  was  borne, 

Mid  kettle-drums  a-thunder, 

Umballa,  the  Orient's  wonder! 

The  victor,  now,  unable 
To  curb  his  pride,  accosted 
His  brother,  while  a  sable 
Slave  with  an  ibis  wing 

37 


298607^ 


Royal  Ring   His  shoes  devoutly  dusted; 

"Well,  Hafed,  where's  the  ring?" 

Amid  the  joyful  troop  then 
Pale  Hafed  kneeled  forthright 
And  pressed  to  earth  his  forehead, 
But  now  his  hair  was  white. 

He  drove  into  his  bosom 
His  long  and  crooked  knife: 
"The  ring  you  found  mid  rubbish 
I  sought  for  with  my  life." 

Since  then  good  luck  has  never 
Deceived  Umballa's  race. 
Are  diamonds  trumps,  they  ever 
Will  hold  the  diamond  ace. 

That  Hafed,  too,  had  offspring 
I  freely  may  declare, 
Who,  young,  within  my  bible 
Now  lay  my  first  gray  hair. 


38 


MUCHAIL'S  EVENING  PRAYER.  Evening 

At  sunset  all  the  married  Mussulmans  of  Kasan  ^ 

fell  on  their  knees  upon  the  flat  roofs  of  the  houses 
and  praised  the  One  and  cried:  "I  thank  God  that 
I  am  not  made  a  woman !" 

Only  the  old  Muchail,  who  was  more  than  eighty 
years  old  and  had  a  whole  life's  experience,  stood 
erect  with  his  arms  crossed  and  knitted  his  brows 
and  cried  or  chanted  loudly: 

"Grimy  with  labor,  to  my  home  I  reel, 
Now  that  the  glowing  star  of  eve  doth  summon, 
Keen  as  a  glimmer  on  Damascus  steel. 
I  grieve,  oh  God,  I  was  not  made  a  woman. 
Not  that  meseemeth  in  Thy  plan 
A  woman  is  more  fair  than  is  a  man. 
He  is  to  her — such  boldness  doth  endow 
His  form,  and  so  half-rakish  he  doth  pride  him — 
As  is  the  fiery  bull  unto  the  cow 
That  licks  her  udder  lazily  beside  him. 
Nor  soon  in  me  the  thought  doth  fade 
That  all  of  Kasan's  town  by  man  was  made. 
He  doth  not  murmur,  though  he  slave  for  both. 
Late  by  the  lamp  he  holds  his  weary  session. 
The  while  his  women  empty,  nothing  loth. 
The  sherbet  glass,  and  prate  of  man's  oppression. 
'Twas  his  worn  hand  that  dug  the  well,  where 

burst 
The  cooling  streams  that  quench   these  women's 

thirst. 

39 


Evening  Their  house — 'tis  man  must  bring  the  stones  and 
Prayer  rear  it. 

Aye,  give  to  each  his  burden,  as  is  right! 

I  grieve  but,  God,  for  this  .  .  .  Oh,  read  my  spirit! 

I  fain  would  be  a  woman  that  I  might 

Give  unto  man  the  love  his  virtues  merit." 


40 


THE  THREE  QUESTIONS. 

An  Isis  statue  stands  in  Nubia's  plain, 

Around  it  ancient  ruins  are  reclining; 

A  pool  lies  near,  a  stone's  throw  from  the  fane. 

The  negro  thinks,  if,  when  the  moon  is  shining. 

He  stands  beside  the  statue  on  a  night 

Of  Ramadan  in  vesture  all  of  white 

And  turban,  too,  of  white, — if  then  he  throws 

Three  stones  which  he  has  blackened  in  the  fire 

Into  the  water  where  the  moonlight  glows, 

Three  questions  will  be  solved  to  his  desire. 

If  they  all  three  the  mirror  chance  to  shatter, 
He'll  win  the  love  of  her  he  holds  most  dear, 
Will  live  to  ninety,  die  his  tribe's  ameer. 
And  fame  throughout  Sudan  his  praise  will  scatter. 

'Tis  night  now,  and  a  stately  negro,  stooping. 

Waits,  with  the  tamarisk  shadows  o'er  him  drooping. 

Blue-white  I  see  his  muslin  turban  shine. 

And  on  the  sable  head,  in  dimmer  fashion, 

I  see  the  red  lips,  like  a  crimson  gash  on 

The  surface  of  a  leather  sack  of  wine. 

So  clear  the  desert  moon,  it  gives  the  hue 

Of  day  to  all.    Or  does  the  morn  awaken? 

Yon  tawny  peak  an  odalisque  form  has  taken. 

Sitting  there  veiled  in  films  of  whitish-blue. 


Three 
Questions 


Beneath  a  palm-tree  near  the  statue  bending. 
He  stands  a  while.     He  quickly  lifts  his  hand. 


41 


Three  -^^^  short  the  stone  strikes,  leadenly  descending: 

Questions   ^^^  name  will  ne'er  be  great  in  Sudan  Land! 
'^  He  tears  the  loosened  turban  from  his  head. 

He  throws  another  blackened  stone,  but  that  is 
Too  far,  it  falls  amid  the  trees'  gray  lattice; 
That  means  his  early  death,  a  sign  of  dread ! 

Frantic,  amazed,  hands  clasped  in  desperate  yearn- 
ing, 
As  if  in  prayer,  toward  Isis'  form  he's  turning. 
He  knows  that  now  his  deepest  wishes  lie 
In  that  third  stone,  as  on  a  falling  die. 
For  if  the  stone  into  the  pool  he  cast. 
Though  young,  a  beggar  of  the  streets,  he  perish, 
His  desert-fiery  love  the  hope  may  cherish 
Ere  then  to  reach  the  longed-for  goal  at  last. 


He  throws  the  stone,  mindless  of  everything. 
Two    sweat-drops    bathe    his    forehead,    cold 

terror. 
Then  suddenly  there  splashes  in  the  mirror 
A  silver-bordered,  ever-widening  ring. 


with 


42 


THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  SISTERS  OF  ISIS.   Wedding  of 

the  Sisters 
I. 

Prolog:  Chorus  of  the  Sisters  of  Isis. 

Raise  the  garlands,  O  ye  virgin  sisters, 

From  your  hair  unto  the  drowsy  night ! 

O'er  the  desert  now  the  twilight  glisters. 

Would  the  hour  of  evening  ne'er  took  flight! 

Would  those  girls  of  Thebes,  each  one  so  tender 

Bearing  to  the  well  her  polished  jar. 

Might  be  ever  lovely,  ever  slender, 

Ever  youthful  as  to-night  they  are! 

Would  yon  boys  that  on  the  mountains  blue 

To  their  flocks  now  call 

Might  stay  children,  and  their  lambkins  too 

Be  but  lambkins  small ! 

Lift  your  voices,  virgins  pure,  in  weeping. 

O'er  each  myrtle  wreath  let  sweet  tears  well ! 

Bar  the  world  from  out  the  temple,  keeping 

But  the  sweet  that  in  this  eve  doth  dwell. 

But  the  innocence  of  youthful  creatures! 

Let  a  refuge  here  for  that  be  made. 

Which  with  yonder  boys  and  girls  will  fade, 

Wearing  only  long-lost  memory's  features! 

II. 

After  a  listless  day,  when  the  cool  of  an  eve   In 
December 

43 


Wedding  of  Came  like  a  rapture  of  rest  upon  Thebes,  the  over- 
the  Sisters  thronged  city, 

Then  did  the  handmaids  of  Isis  meet  on  the  roof 

of  the  temple; 
Vestured  in  white,  they  enringed  a  bowl  of  glittering 

copper. 
Brimful  of  water,  it  shone,  the  mighty  bowl  on  its 

tripod. 
Oft  was  it  used  so,  because  in  the  stars  it  mirrored 

could  women 
Skilled  in  star-cunning  divine  the  joys  and  griefs  of 

the  future. 

Then  did  the  eldest  priestess,  the  ninety-year  Bent- 

Amenemma, 
Heavily  rise.    On  her  breast  a  beaten-gold  image  of 

Isis 
Gleamed.     From  her  tenderest  years  for  that  moon- 
light faith  she  had  striven. 
Chaste  and  inviolate  law  of  the  pure,  the  gentle-eyed 

Isis. 
Strictly  she  governed  the  rest.    Through  the  city, — 

nay,  throughout  Egypt, — 
Flew  the  insulting  words  that  her  savage  tongue  had 

been  hurling 
Long  against  Hator-Secket,  the  Goddess  of  Pleasure. 

She  bowed  her 
Silently  over  the  bowl  and  read  in  the  fate-written 

water. 

44 


Anxious  and  hushed,  the  circle  waited;  but  lo!  with    Wedding  of 

a  sudden  ^/^^  Sisters 

Gesture  she   flung  back  her  whitened   hair!      "Ye 

priestesses  holy, 
Never  the  stars  have  given  an  answer  more  grim 

than  this  evening. 
Darkly,    sepulchrally    clanks    a    threatening    doom 

there  above  us : 
One  of  us  shall  to-night  so  deeply  sin,  that  atonement 
Greater  by  sevenfold   than   the  sin  shall  of  us  be 

demanded." 

Whispering  then,  the  priestesses  rose,  but  the  pretty 

Ahanna 
Twitched  the  old  woman's  robe  and  said :  "O  worthy 

high  priestess. 
Ask  of  the  sinner's  name,  that  she  straight  be  exposed 

without  mercy!" 
Lifting  a  hand  as  dried  as  a  mummy,  and  moved 

unto  weeping. 
Thus   did    the   other   reply,    the    ninety-year   Bent- 

Amenemma: 
"Spare  we  that  question  to-night ;  to-morrow  it  well 

may  be  answered. 
Seems  not  the  blow  sufficient  to  thee?     Would  my 

zeal,  then,  be  grateful. 
If  thou  thyself  should'st  be  crushed  by  the  weight 

of  the  starry  foreboding?" 

So  she  ended.     And,  foll'wing  the  bowl  which  the 
sisters  in  silence 

45 


Wedding  of  Carried,  they  slowly  went  down  from  the  roof  in 
the  Sisters  mournful  procession. 


Eve  became  night,  and  around  the  failing  fires  in 

the  market 
Shivering  boys  attended  the  voice  of  the  teller  of 

stories. 
Clad  in  his  chequered  coat  with  bells  on  sleeves  and 

on  hem,  he 
Sang  in  the  waning  glare  of  the  flame,  which  tinted 

his  figure 
Ghastly  pale  as  a  powdered  buffoon.     On  a  height 

in  the  desert, 
Far  from  the  market-place,  far  from  the  hundred 

gates  of  the  city. 
Rose  in  stupendous  bulk  the  dusky  temple  of  Isis. 
Open  it  was,  as  ever,  but  guarded  by  staring-eyed 

sphinxes 
And   by   the    faith    of   mankind; — superstition   and 

faith  are  the  same,  lo! — 
Through  the  pylon  and  fore-court  the  way  was  open 

to  all  men. 
Farther  might  none  proceed,  for  there  in  the  inner- 
most shrine  sat, — 
Hewn  of  gray-black  granite  that  came  from  afar  in 

the  southland. 
Rock-hard,   mysteriously   dark,   and   half   concealed 

in  her  mantle, — 
46 


Isis,  with  Horus  on  knee,  in  her  horns  the  disc  of    fVedding  of 
the  full-moon.  tke  Sisters 

Warden's  place  by  the  statue  that  night  was  assigned 

to  Ahanna. 
Stiffly  erect  as  the  goddess;  her  chin,  her  cheek,  and 

her  forehead 
Vividly  lighted  with  red,  but  with  heavy  shadows 

extending 
Over  her  eyes,  she  stood,  her  bare  arms  crossed  on 

her  bosom. 
Close  to  the  altar-fire  with  its  wind-blown,  flickering 

streamers. 
Roused  by  a  squeaking  bat,  that  flew  with  wings 

nearly  singeing 
Back  and  forth  by  the  flame,  she  looked  about  and 

beheld  then — 
Far  through  the  lotos-columns,  which  all  from  bot- 
tom to  top  were 
Stained   blue  and   red  with   symbolical   pictures  of 

mythic  tradition — 
Deep  in  the  darkness,  a  man  in  flowing  raiment  of 

scarlet. 
Pallid  with  consternation,  she  sprang  back  and  held 

o'er  the  fire 
Hands  outstretched  in  imploring  as  unto  a  spectre. 

The  Red  One, 
Carelessly  humming,  advanced  to  the  light  none  the 

less,  and  forthwith  she 

47 


Wedding  of  Knew  him  to  be  a  priest  of  Hator,  whose  robe  was 
the  Sisters  embroidered 

Down  all  its  trailing  expanse  with  figures  of  pipes 
and  of  tambours. 

Poised  on  a  bull-like  neck,  his  head  rose  straight  and 

defiant. 
Jewels  a-many  he  bore  on  his  youthful  arms,  and 

he  chanted 
Low,  while  his  teeth  shone  white  and  the  temple 

rang  with  his  laughter: 
"I,  merry  Hator's  priest,  who  have  sipped  till  the 

close  of  the  evening 
Wine  sweet  as  ever  was  drunk  in  Thebes,  the  opu- 
lent city. 
Now  have  a  tickling  desire  to  eat  here  my  supper 

untroubled. 
Toasting  my  loaf  at  the  embers  that  glow  on  the 

altar  of  Isis. 
Sit,  that  we  may  divide  it  like  brother  and  sister, 

my  darling! 
Then,  timid  child,  thou  shalt  give  me  thy  lips  for 

a  kiss  to  repay  me." 

Blushing  red  with  shame   and   terror,   the   maiden 

pushed  from  her 
Sidewise  the  loaf  that  he  broke  so  calmly  over  the 

fire. 
Frantic  with  haste,  she  caught  from  the  altar  utensils 

a  bell  then, 
48 


Massive  its  clapper  of  gold,  with  handle  carven  of    W edding  of 
aniber  the  Sisters 

Brought  by  seamen  of  Sidon  from  regions  of  utter- 
most Thule. 

Hollowly  now  in  the  lonely  depths  of  the  temple 
resounded 

Four  quick  metallic  blows,  like  wing-beats  close  to 
each  other. 

Harshly  the  great  doors  ground  and  sandals  hur- 
riedly pattered, 

White-robed    priestesses    came    from    stairway    and 
passage ;  amazed,  they 

Saw  there  the  priest  of  Hator.     But  bitterly  spoke 
the  high  priestess. 

Eldest  among  them  all,   the  ninety-year  Bent-Am- 
enemma: 

"This  is  the  sin  predestined.     In  Isis'  presence  our 
sister 

Stood  with  a  man.     In  Isis'  presence  now  must  she 
be  offered ! 

Sevenfold  more  than  the  sin  the  offering  demanded, 
and  therefore 

Six  more,  the  youngest,  I  doom  to  fall  by  the  knife 
as  atonement." 

Therewith   she   felt   for  and   drew   a  knife,   but   a 
thunderous  wind-gust 

Blew  out  the  altar-flame.     The  trembling,  terrified 
sisters, 

Huddling  close  together,  their  prayers  and  formulas 
muttered. 

49 


Wedding  of  Bent-Amenemma,  famed  for  supernatural  wisdom, 
the  Sisters        Spoke,  after  blowing  asunder  the  heap  of  blackening 
embers: 
"Sisters,  that  was  a  sign  to  spare  the  young  girls. 

Let  us  hasten 
Even  to-night  unto  Thebes  to  the  priests  of  Hator 
for  counsel!" 


When  with  the  sisters  she  neared  the  house  of  the 

famed  and  audacious 
Brothers  of  Hator,  she  heard  a  clamor  of  drinking 

within  it. 
Stretched   supine   on  a  couch  lay  the  jesting  high 

priest  of  the  order. 
Boys  from  Goshen  were  swinging  on  handles  covered 

with  silver 
Elegant  peacock  fans  that  shone  with  the  gleam  of 

a  hundred 
Sapphires  and  emeralds.     Then  in   time  with  the 

tinkle  of  cithers 
All  arose  for  the  dance.     The  caps  and  cloaks  of 

the  dancers 
Glittered  with  cloth  of  silver,  with  opals  and  gay- 
colored  tassels. 
Darkly  Bent-Amenemma  stood  forth  in  the  midst  of 

the  banquet's 
Carelessly  rippling  commotion,  and  making  her  way 

to  the  high  priest, 

50 


Spoke  with   accents  of  sternest  command :   "Thou    fVedding  of 
prince  of  vain  pleasures,  the  Sisters 

Break   off   thy   scandalous    feast,    let    the    juggling 
fiddles  be  silent! 

Cast  off  thy  panther-skin  dress  and  put  on  the  rai- 
ment of  sorrow! 

For  by  the  stars  a  sin  was  foretold."     The  ninety- 
year  woman, 

Pale  and  bent,  would  but  tell  in  a  whisper  that 
which  had  happened, 

Writhing  her   hands   in   despair  and   terror,   while 
tears  without  ceasing 

Poured  down  her  wrinkled  cheeks.    The  merry  high 
priest,  as  he  heard  her, — 

He  who,  most  like  a  child  with  friendly  eyes  full 
of  wonder. 

Took  his  days  as  they  came  and  strewed  on  him 
legends  and  fancies; 

He  who,  soon  as  a  priest  bore  tidings  of  grief  to 
the  dwelling. 

Drove  him  forth  with  showers  of  figs  and  bunches 
of  wine-grapes, — 

He,  the  lover  of  scoffing,  was  smitten  with  shame 
and,  embarrassed. 

Knotted  his  fingers  so  tightly  around  the  sable  and 
hairy 

Goat-skin  bottle  of  wine,  that  purple  drops  of  the 
vintage 

Sprinkled     his     hand. — "My     sister,     oh     wisdom- 
renowned,  my  sister" — 

51 


Wedding  of  Shy  and  abashed  he  began,  and  gave  her  his  hand, 
the  Sisters  o"  whose  fingers 

Wine   was   glowing   like   blood.      "But   half   is   it 

proved,  oh  my  sister. 
True,  by  the  stars  was  foretold  a  sin,  but  the  name 

of  the  sinner 
Thou  did'st  omit  to  ask.     Bring  thy  bowl  and  seek 

in  the  water 
Whether  the  stars  have  writ  that  the  sinner's  name 
is  Ahanna!" 

Now  had   the  bowl  been  brought  and   set  on   its 

copper-green  tripod, 
High  aloft  was  it  raised  in  the  sheltered  court  of 

the  palace. 
There   did   the  southern   stars   through   the  limpid 

night  of  the  desert 
Brightly  gaze  on  the  bowl.    At  the  threshold-stone 

in  the  doorway. 
Diffident,  stood  the  high  priest.     His  brothers,  who 

else  were  accustomed 
Only  to  revel  and  jest,  were  standing  like  boys  newly 

punished 
Round  the  bowl  of  the  sisters;  the  strains  of  music 

were  silent, 
Sweet-breathing  incense  was  quenched  in  the  sandy 

square  of  the  courtyard. 

Straight'ning  her  crooked   back,   out  stepped   then 

Bent-Amenemma, 
52 


Grim  with  menace,  and  read  the  far-famed  oracular    Wedding  of 

surface.  the  Sisters 

Upright  for  long  she  stood,  but  slowly  sank  more 

together. 
Anxiously  groping  about  with  her  fingers  over  her 

kirtle. 
Staring  with  fixed,  keen  gaze  at  the  fiery  star-script. 

In  horror 
Trembling,  she  sank  on  her  knees.     Her  chin  and 

cheek  were  sunk  forward 
Deep  in  the  mirroring  water.     In  dumb  desperation 

she  clenched  her 
Teeth  on  the  edge  of  the  shimmering  bowl,  and  fell 

with  an  outcry 
Vehemently  back,  while  she  dragged  the  bowl  along 

in  her  falling; 
Drenched  with  the  sacred  water,  she  lay  a-swoon  in 

the  courtyard. 
Forward  the  high  priest  hurried,  he  seized  the  hands 

of  his  brothers 
Warmly,  nor  did  his  attire,  that  shone  with  jeweled 

adornments. 
Gleam  more  brilliantly  now  than  his  eyes  all  radiant 

with  rapture. 
Nodding,    he    shouted    aloud,    as    amid    the    flutes 

thrown  aside  there, 
Fans,  too,  and  trampled  goblets,  he  went  his  way 

through  the  courtyard: 

"Thine  was  the  sinner's  name,  thine  own,  oh  Bent- 
Amenemma! 

53 


Wedding  of     When  thou  at  Isis'  foot  drov'st  away  a  man  from 
the  Sisters  thy  sister, 

Thou  did'st  wrong  even  Isis.    Ah,  why  should  we 

ever  be  laying 
Our  false  words  on  the  lips  of  the  gods?    For  these 

women  here  wot  of 
Only  one  kind  of  sin,  the  sin  to  which  others  are 

subject. 
Wine,  the  kiss  of  a  girl,  and  the  daring  jest  that 

will  startle 
Senile  women  and  men — to  the  gods  above  these 

are  blameless. 
Moon  and  stars  and  sun  are  gifts  of  the  gods,  but 

so  likewise 
She  the  beloved  of  my  youth  and  my  loaf  of  bread. 

As  like  brothers. 
Sharing  the  loaf  and  the  goat-skin  flask,  we  are 

sitting  together, 
In  the  convivial  air  sprouts  the  seed  from  which 

may  in  secret 
Grow  the   all-brothering  hour. — The   sacrifice  of 

atonement 
Must  be  sevenfold  more  than  the  sin  was.    There- 
fore, my  sister. 
Give  to  eternal  Hator  of  Isis'  handmaidens  seven. 
Day  and  night  shall  the  seven,  for  thus  I  interpret 

the  judgment, 
Ever  be  fettered,  each  one  to  the  priest  of  Hator 

she  favors." 
54 


Ill  did  the  priestesses,  though,  repress  their  heart- 
hidden  gladness, 

When  they  were  dragged  away  mid  the  Hator 
priests'  exultation. 

After  the  smith  had  been  brought  from  Thebes,  afar 
through  the  desert 

Rang  the  quick-riveting  strokes  of  the  hammer;  but 
when  these  were  silent, 

Loud  to  the  lonely  night  from  the  fast-barred  house 
of  the  brothers 

Rattling  tambours  proclaimed  the  nuptial  feast  of 
the  sisters. 


Wedding  of 
the  Sisters 


III. 

Epilog:  Hymn  of  the  Priests  of  Hator  to  Ptah. 

As  bounteous  love  shines  bright  in  every  thread 

Of  the  rich  robe  the  husband's  hand  hath  spread 

As  gift  for  the  beloved  one  of  his  soul. 

So  bright,  O  God,  thy  love  shines  from  the  whole. 

O  love-abounding  God !    O  Father  good ! 

Say,  hast  thou  nearer  to  our  threshold  stood 

Than    now,    when    wine    from    goat-skin    flasks    is 

streaming. 
While  gentle,  string-sped  music  whispers  low, 
And  we,  the  sons  of  hate,  are  brothers,  deeming 
That  all  the  world  with  peace  and  love  must  glow? 
If  thou  hast  wrought  whatever  we  perceive, 
In  evil  also — we  must  then  believe — 
Reflected  glimmers  of  thy  glory  shine. 

55 


Wedding  of  Thus  evil,  too,  is  as  a  child  of  thine. 
the  Sisters       What  God   hath  wrought  must  needs  be   free  of 
blame. 
What  mortals  "wickedness"  and  "sin"  may  name 
Is  wickedness  and  sin  but  in  their  sight. 
There  is  a  heavenly  voice  which  earth  misjudges 
quite. 


56 


THE  FIG-TREE.  The  Fig-Tree 

Welcome,  thou  cool  oriental  evening,  welcome ! 
After  the  hot  day  thou  art  as  a  pitcher  of  water  after 
a  ride  in  the  desert.  Thou  art  as  a  pale  young  wife, 
who  from  the  hill  beckons  home  the  sweating  toiler 
of  the  fields.  Thou  art  like  the  Tartar  jeweler's 
opal,  for  thy  color  shifts  between  the  white  of  milk 
and  the  glowing  red  of  wine  in  the  same  manner 
that  thy  joy  shifts  between  healthful,  strengthening 
repose  and  enkindling  merriment. 

With  this  apostrophe  I  saluted  the  evening  and 
reined  up  my  jenny  in  a  small  ravine  which  clam- 
bered up  toward  Jerusalem.  The  city  lay  on  a 
height,  with  its  surrounding  wall  and  its  cupola-ed 
white  houses,  like  a  four-cornered  basket  full  of 
eggs.  Before  the  city  gate,  white-clad  widows  were 
sitting  motionless  at  the  graves  of  their  husbands, 
mirrored  in  a  great,  quiet,  colorless  pool. 

All  at  once  came  the  dusk.  The  road  of  the 
ravine  became  full  of  people — for  the  time  of  the 
Passover  was  drawing  near. 


At  the  door  of  a  small  cottage,  where  women  were 
preparing  supper,  was  seated  Christ,  the  Brotherer. 
Although  His  face  could  not  be  wholly  distinguished, 
because  the  light  of  an  oil-lamp  within  the  house  fell 
upon  his  back,  yet  one  could  tell  at  once  who  He 
was.      His    dark   hair    hung   in    rough   luxuriance 

57 


The  Fig-Tree  down  to  His  knees.  His  white  prophet's  garment 
was  frayed,  His  feet  dusty.  With  His  left  hand  He 
compressed  the  nozzle  of  a  leather  skin  of  wine. 
Whenever  one  of  the  friends  who  were  sitting  with 
crossed  legs  in  a  circle  about  him  attempted  to  rise, 
He  pressed  him  back  to  his  place  again  and  offered 
him  drink.  No  cares,  no  thought  of  labor  came  to 
disturb  the  still  evening  joy. 

Then  arose,  unobserved,  Judas,  the  Jew  of  Jews. 
His  well-tended  hands  and  feet  were  white  as  mar- 
ble, and  the  nails  carefully  polished.  He  did  not 
wipe  the  sweat  from  his  forehead  with  a  fold  of  his 
garment  as  did  the  other  disciples,  but  drew  out 
always  a  long  Roman  handkerchief.  His  clean- 
shaven, prosperous-looking  face  with  its  small,  sedate, 
intelligent  eyes  was  altogether  that  of  the  sober,  dis- 
creet man  of  property. 

He  stole  away  softly  behind  the  cottage  on  the 
road  to  Jerusalem,  while  his  green  head-cloth  flut- 
tered among  the  twisted  black  olive  trees.  He  smote 
himself  on  the  forehead  and  spoke  half-aloud,  and 
it  was  not  difficult  to  divine  his  thoughts. 

What  does  it  lead  to,  thought  he,  if  one  follow 
this  man  who  forbids  us  to  work  and  to  think  of 
the  future,  and  upon  whose  head  they  have  finally 
set  a  price  ?  Have  not  I  year  by  year  and  day  by  day 
saved  coin  after  coin?  There  lack  but  thirty  pieces 
of  silver — but  thirty! — and  I  shall  be  sitting  under 
my  own  fig-tree. — 
58 


Involuntarily  I  reached  for  a  stone.    Then  Christ,    The  Fig-Tree 
the  Brotherer,  arose  in  the  lighted  doorway. 

"Thou  art  still  young,"  he  called  out  to  me. 
"Thy  first  thought  upon  thine  own  fig-tree  shall  go 
forth  and  sell  me." 

Meanwhile  the  ravine  became  so  dark  that  nothing 
could  any  longer  be  distinguished.  All  sank  back 
into  tlie  Orient's  indescribable  stillness,  a  stillness 
that  has  brought  forth  prophets.  But  from  that 
evening  I  understood  them  who  desire  that  no  man 
shall  possess  an  oicn  fig-tree. 


59 


What  Shall  WHAT  SHALL  I  THINK? 

/  Think? 

When  Mahmoud  Khan,  elated  by  the  wine 

Of  conquest,  entered  Sumnat's  plundered  shrine, — 

WTiere  to  the  columns  breaking  the  expanse 

Of  swamps,  illimitable,  foul  and  dreary. 

His  soldiers  tied  their  chargers,  battle-weary. 

And  now  drew  lots  for  captured  shield  and  lance, — 

Right  against  Shiva's  giant  image,  towering 

Sternly,  in  shining  silver  all  arrayed. 

With  sixteen  arms  and  one  great  eyeball  glowering, 

He  raised  his  famed  and  dreaded  blade, — 

Evilest  of  sledges 

That  the  evilest  smith 

(As  the  East  alleges) 

E'er  smote  anvil  with. 

Inside  the  court,  where  the  dim  sun,  declining. 

Shed  spectral  green  on  pool  and  colonnade, 

And  fettered  hounds  with  blood-stained  whips  were 

flayed, 
'Twas  black  with  men  save  for  their  helmets'  shin- 
ing. 
Here  cups  and  fans  and  dancers'  robes  were  scat- 
tered ; 
There  amid  laugh  and  shriek  were  women  led. 
By  ropes  that  cut  their  bare  knees  till  they  bled, 
Past  elephants  and  captured  idols,  battered, 
With  heads  knocked  off  in  one  of  the  caprices 
Found  in  all  minds  of  true  barbarian  mould, 
60 


Mid  drinking-vessels,  too,  of  tarnished  gold,  What  Shall 

And  skins  of  Kashmir  goats  with  silken  fleeces.  /  Think? 

A  Brahmin  gray 

Timidly  stepped  into  the  conqueror's  way. 

His  small  head  stuck  absurdly  out 

From  his  great  cap  with  silver  fringed  about 

Like  a  potato  from  a  silver  cup. 

To  Shiva's  altar  he  advanced  forthright, 

And,  feverishly  trembling,  then  spoke  up: 

"Hurl  in  thy  wrath,  O  Mahmoud  Khan,  to-night 

My  body  to  the  temple-river  eels. 

But  tell  what  thought  at  thy  brown  forehead's  base  is 

Of  man,  the  thought  that  boundlessly  disgraces 

All  manhood  as  thy  nature  it  reveals!" 

The  chieftain  smiled  with  aspect  so  appalling 

That  his  own  warriors  hid  their  eyes  before 

The  blow.    Therewith  they  heard  his  weapon  falling 

With  hollow  sound  as  on  a  dungeon  door. 

Now    sprang,    when    Shiva's    form    in    twain    was 

crumbled. 
Out  of  the  cloven  belly  far  and  wide 
A  rainbow  fount  of  gems  on  every  side, 
Where    diamonds,    sapphires,    pearls,    and    mohurs 

tumbled. 
All  of  the  temple's  spoil,  a  very  glut 
From  rajah's  harem  and  from  peasant's  hut. 
From  widows  and  from  orphans,  there  was  gleaming 
In  open  day  before  the  robber  horde. 

61 


What  Shall  Like  peas  from  an  inverted  basket  streaming, 

/  Think?        The  great  pearls  down  the  polished  stairway  poured. 

So  Mahmoud  Khan  smiled  grimly  once  again, 
And  to  the  gray  old  Brahmin  answered  then, 
While  the  old  man  so  shook  to  see  his  pelf 
That  the  eleven  bells  which  fringed  his  vest 
Tinkled  with  ruby  tongues  their  tiny  best: 
"When  man's  god  is  the  priesthood's  money-chest, 
What  shall  I  think,  forsooth,  of  man  himself?" 


62 


DJUFAR'S  SONG.  Djufar's 

Song 
In  Tanta,  city  of  the  dancing-girls, 

Where  white  and  yellow  cotton-blossoms  grow, 

Where   maize-fields   fringe  the   delta-ed    Nile  with 

green, 

And  water-wheels  are  turned  by  bufifalo, — 

In  that  same  town  old  Djufar  lived,  a  man 

Famed  for  his  tongue,  for  he  had  power  to  rhyme 

With  the  long  verses  that  the  Orient  loves 

In  rhythm  to  the  merry  dancers'  time. 

So  well  he  sang  the  town — its  minarets. 

Its  hundred  dove-towers,  and  its  market-place — 

That  the  charmed  listener  sprang  not  up  to  dance, 

But  rather  wept,  his  hand  before  his  face. 

Early  one  morn  he  sat  beside  his  door, 
Full-clad,  though  still  the  rising  sun  was  red. 
Then  all  the  maidens  at  the  fountain  cried : 
"Djufar's  composing,  he's  forgot  his  bed, 
So  that  this  evening  when  mid  hashish  fumes. 
Barefooted,  to  the  sound  of  flutes  we  dance 
The  veil-dance,  he  may  sing  and  lure  us  first 
To  laughter  and  anon  to  tears,  perchance." 

Then  answered  Djufar:  "Have  I  time  for  song, 
I,  whom  a  desert  grave  will  soon  devour? 
Not  even  for  my  slumber  would  I  lose 
So  cool  and  exquisite  a  morning  hour." 

63 


Djufar's  Then  cried  the  youngest  girl,  as  with  a  laugh 
Song  She  set  on  her  black  hair  the  jar  of  clay: 

"Our  friend  is  over-old  to  poetize. 

Why,  when  will  Djufar  be  a  hundred,  pray?" 

Enraged,  the  bent  old  man  arose  and  strewed 
Crumbs  for  his  doves  with  visage  all  a-frown. 
But  when  he  saw  the  cupolas  that  swelled 
Like  clustered  grapes  above  his  native  town. 
And  looked  across  the  plain,  his  aspect  cleared. 
"Come  then,  were  I  a  hundred  years  and  more, 
My  ancient  tongue  would  still  have  strength  to  sing 
While  yonder  scene  was  spread  around  my  door." 

They  shouted.     People  hurried  from  the  town 
And  sat  as  round  a  camp-fire  in  a  mass ; 
The  drummer  brought  his  kettle-drum  along. 
Of  fish-skin  spread  across  a  bowl  of  brass. 
At  length,  when  the  musicians  formed  a  ring. 
Their  flutes  uplifted,  lutes  upon  the  knee. 
And  slender  rebecs  with  the  strings  on  pegs 
Of  bright  wood  from  the  Indian  sandal-tree. 
And  when  in  the  soft  motion  of  the  dance 
The  coin  that  on  each  maiden's  brow  was  set 
Began  to  glitter  like  a  spark  of  fire, 
Djufar  approached  the  fountain-parapet. 

He  carefully  drew  out  a  scroll  and  pen 

From  the  long  silver  sheath  where  they  were  stored 

And  snapped  the  ink-horn  open  that  had  hung 

64 


Beside  him  on  a  yellow  silken  cord.  Djiifar's 

Untroubled  calm  lay  over  all  the  place,  Song 

On  Silence's  forever  silent  land, 

The  land  of  lethargy,  hushed  Egypt,  where 

The  very  wave  breaks  voiceless  on  the  strand. 

Sleeping  flamingoes  lined  the  bank!    A  boat 

Swam  down  the  yellow  mirror  of  the  tide. 

Its  after-cabin  painted  green  and  red. 

Drifting  with  neither  oar  nor  sail  to  guide. 

Old  Djufar  mounted  on  the  parapet 

Solemnly,  like  an  actor  much-renov/ned. 

And  mothers  raised  their  little  children  up 

To  wait  his  song — but  Djufar  made  no  sound. 

His  eyes  dilated  and  glowed  out  beneath 

His  forehead,  which  was  brown  as  darkened  leather, 

And  in  his  eagerly  uplifted  hand 

Against  the  blue  sky  shone  the  pen's  white  feather. 

He  moved  his  lips  in  silence,  he  who  oft 

Had  charmed  forth  tears  and  laughter  from  the  rest 

Both  with  his  verses  and  his  ringing  voice 

Now  let  his  chin  sink  slowly  to  his  breast. 

He  turned  him  from  the  folk  and  with  a  sleeve 
Of  his  burnous  he  covered  all  his  head. 
He  burst  out  weeping.     He  let  fall  his  pen 
And  back  into  his  lowly  home  he  fled. 

Then  cried  the  foremost  maiden:  "In  good  truth 
Djufar  is  fated  never  to  be  stirred 

65 


Djufar's   By  poet  rapture  more." — The  next  went  home 
Song  In  anger  from  the  fountain,  but  the  third 

Beckoned  to  the  musicians  not  to  go. 
Then  where  the  scroll  lay  wet  with  tears  she  bent, 
She  raised  it  up,  and,  followed  by  the  folk 
To  merry  string-  and  drum-notes  forth  she  went. 
She  bore  it  to  the  city's  tranquil  shrine. 
Where  in  an  aisle  the  scroll  was  kept,  and  long 
Did  Tanta's  daughters  come  to  kiss  it  there. 
Thinking  the  while  of  Djufar's  silent  song. 

The  eye-joy  that  the  Orient  affords. 

No  man  with  rows  of  signs  can  teach  the  soul ; 

But  ancient  Djufar  paints  the  ecstasy 

Most  truly  on  his  tear-stained,  empty  scroll. 


66 


THE  FICKLE  MAN  Fickle  Man 

Among  many  partly  damaged  Arabic  manuscripts 
which  Abu  Barak,  the  book-seller,  sat  and  spelled  out 
by  the  light  of  his  horn  lantern,  the  uppermost  had 
the  following  tenor: 

Damascus,  in  the  third  year  of  Caliph  Osman's 
reign  and  the  forty-first  after  his  birth.  May  the 
One  grant  to  him  and  to  all  of  you  a  peaceful  year ! 

I  can  respect,  perhaps  even  admire  the  man  who 
lives  according  to  rule,  who  is  looked  upon  as  a 
pattern,  who  even  from  his  earliest  youth  falls  into 
a  given  path,  and  dutifully  and  composedly  follows 
it  until  he  dies,  surrounded  by  well-nurtured  chil- 
dren. When  I  talk  with  him,  however,  it  is  as 
though  I  conversed  with  a  very  inexperienced  and 
one-sided  person.  He  has  never  been  in  a  condition 
to  test  life  from  many  sides.  He  has  never  by  a 
violent  impulse  cast  aside  a  piece  of  work  already 
begun  and  attempted  something  new.  The  fickle 
man,  on  the  contrary,  because  of  frequently  giving 
himself  with  renewed  zeal  to  new  enterprises,  gains 
an  assured  experience  in  all,  a  rich  versatility.  I 
love  the  fickle  man.  His  changes  of  mood  remind 
me  of  the  changing  facets  of  a  jewel.  His  conversa- 
tion delights  my  ear  in  the  same  way  as  the  gay 
arabesques  in  the  mosque  of  Ispahan  delight  my  eye. 
It  is  as  though  his  mind  were  constructed  of  finer 
and  more  sensitive  material  than  those  of  others. 
If  he  advances  an  opinion  to-day,  he  will  perhaps 

67 


Fickle  Man  to-morrow  attack  it,  because  his  mind  is  utterly 
carried  away  by  his  adversary's  observations  and 
arguments.  In  just  this  way  he  generally  comes 
nearer  the  truth  than  anyone  else,  and  if  he  makes 
a  mistake,  he  quickly  corrects  it  himself.  What  is 
in  reality  an  immovable  conviction?  Is  it  not  one- 
sidedness,  obstinacy,  spiritual  sluggishness,  or  a  pre- 
sumptuous belief  in  one's  own  judgment?  What  a 
great  gift  it  is  to  be  able  to  put  oneself  instantly  into 
another's  thoughts  and  ideas,  what  a  nimbleness  of 
soul!  The  fanatic,  the  opposite  of  the  fickle  man, 
lacks  this  power  entirely ;  he  sticks  fast  to  an  opinion 
and  goes  to  death  for  it  as  if  it  were  the  greatest 
truth  in  the  world,  although  often  it  proves  in  time 
to  be  the  greatest  falsehood  in  the  world.  His 
narrow  one-sidedness  reminds  us  of  the  sort  of  men 
whom  we  call  wooden-headed.  Why  should  one 
enclose  only  a  single  hardened  thought,  a  single 
kernel,  like  the  insignificant  little  plum,  instead  of 
a  hundred  seeds  like  the  great  splendid  melon  ?  The 
God  of  the  Christians  hides  three  persons  in  one, 
but  the  fickle  man  at  least  ten.  To  associate  with 
him  has  therefore  the  same  variety  as  to  associate 
with  several  persons  at  once.  If  a  man  were  con- 
stantly clever  or  constantly  high-minded,  he  would 
easily  be  looked  up  to  as  more  than  a  common  man. 
It  appears  therefore  as  if  cleverness  and  high- 
mindedness  by  a  sort  of  destiny  more  seldom  belonged 
to  the  constant  character  than  to  the  fickle — who, 
however,  always  brings  himself  down  to  the  level 
68 


of   a   common    man,    because    immediately   after    a   Fickle  Alan 

clever   speech    or   noble    action    he   says   something 

stupid  or  does  something  blameworthy.     The  fickle 

man's  friendliness  is  the  warm  and  sincere  impulse 

of  the  moment  and  has  therefore  a  peculiar  charm. 

An  affront  from  him  is  less  grievous,  because  one 

knows  that  he  will   straightway   turn   around   and 

make  amends.     Yes,  I  love  the  fickle  man  and  am 

glad  when  I  obtain  his  friendship,  although  I  am 

compelled  every  day  to  win  it  anew.     On  the  other 

hand,  the  friendship  which  I  have  enshrined  in  the 

constant  man  looks  after  itself ;  it  becomes  with  him 

a  sort  of  obligation — and  I  myself  hardly  ever  think 

of  it. 


69 


A   Theme  A  THEME  WITH  TWO  VARIATIONS. 

I. 

Many  a  man  who  quietly  lays  his  head  on  the 
block  has  swooned  at  a  prick  under  the  finger-nail. 
Nekir  and  Munkar,  the  angels  who  record  the 
actions  of  mankind,  had  every  day  unconcernedly 
made  entry  of  the  heaviest  sins,  but  they  were  much 
startled  and  became  almost  pale  with  terror  when 
once  upon  a  time  they  heard  a  pious  man  on  the 
threshold  of  Paradise  thank  God  that  He  had  pro- 
tected him  against  frivolity,  the  commonest  sin  on 
earth.  Since  Nekir  and  Munkar  were  not  fully 
agreed  as  to  what  he  meant  by  this  never-before- 
mentioned  sin,  they  commanded  the  most  frivolous 
man  on  earth  to  show  himself. 

So  Don  Juan  came,  guffawing  and  whistling. 
It  was  impossible  to  get  a  serious  word  from  him, 
but  a  Jew  to  whom  he  had  pawned  his  plate  pointed 
at  him  and  whispered  in  passing:  "Dot  man  amuses 
himself  all  de  time  und  iss  shoost  mad  about  pretty 
vimmen !     Coot-bye!" 

Nekir  answered :  "To  use  every  hour  of  his  short 
life  is,  as  long  as  others  don't  suffer  from  it,  no  sin 
in  our  sight,  though  it  may  be  in  that  of  the  narrow 
but  possibly  needful  laws  of  men.  It  was  not  he 
whom  we  meant." 

After  that  the  Recording  Angels  repeated  their 
command.  Thereupon,  timid  and  trembling,  came 
70 


Sheik  Rifat  Hassan,  who  died  long  ago.     He  knelt    A  Theme 

and  sobbed:  "Oh  Munkar,   I  lived  the  first  forty 

years  of  my  life  in  such  a  whirl  of  pleasure  that  for 

the  remaining  forty   I   had   to  go  about  as  a  sick 

beggar." 

Then  answered  Munkar:  "My  friend,  to  sacrifice 
the  worst  forty  years  of  one's  life  in  order  to  have 
double  enjoyment  from  the  best  is  no  frivolity. 
That  is  taking  life  seriously." 

After  that  the  Recording  Angels  for  the  third 
time  summoned  the  most  frivolous  man  living.  But 
no  one  answered.  There  was  silence  over  all  the 
earth. 

For  the  fourth  and  fifth  time  they  repeated  the 
summons  without  answer.  They  only  heard  in  the 
distance  a  lengthy,  apathetic  yawning,  and  a  ridicu- 
lous, emaciated  old  man  approached.  He  stood  still 
and  cried  out  insolently  and  defiantly:  "What  is  it 
ye  desire  to  know?  Ask  of  me!  I  am  Diogenes 
and  am  so  wise  that  I  scorn  the  pleasures  of  life." 

Then  answered  Nekir:  "In  that  thou  deemest 
thyself  wise,  thou  art  a  blockhead.  In  that  thou 
failest  to  make  use  of  well-tasting  meat  and  drink, 
of  beautiful  furnishings  and  garments  and  all  the 
trifles  that  in  their  measure  gladden  the  short  space 
of  life,  thou  art  frivolous." 

Therewith  Nekir  dipped  his  pen  and  inscribed  in 
his  book  the  following:  Number  5,989,700,402. 
Diogenes.     The  world's  most  frivolous  man. 

71 


A   Theme  II. 

In  one  of  the  spreading  valleys  overgrown  with 
peach-trees  hard  by  Sana  in  Araby  the  Blest,  Ildis, 
the  Turkish  governor's  daughter,  had  wreathed  a 
mighty  garland.  In  her  joy  at  the  silent,  limpid 
Oriental  evening  she  resolved  to  present  the  garland 
to  that  man  of  Sana's  inhabitants  who  best  under- 
stood how  to  use  the  moment. 

In  her  great  childishness  she  asked  the  watchman 
at  the  city  gate  where  she  could  find  this  man.  He 
led  her  straightway  to  a  writer  of  books.  Who  in 
Sana  knew  not  the  name  of  the  writer  of  books? 
With  hurried  step  he  was  going  back  and  forth  in 
his  garden.  Finally  he  stood  still  with  an  air  of 
satisfaction  and  murmured:  "At  length  I  discern 
clearly  wherein  3'our  charm  consists,  O  evening  of 
the  Orient!"  Thereafter  he  wrote  on  a  slip  of 
paper  the  following: 

What  is  thy  beauty.  Orient  Land, 
Thou  desert  region  of  stones  and  sand. 
With  bare,  parched  mountain-wall? 

'Tis  color  and  silence  all ! 
Throw  o'er  the  sunlight  Europa's  glum 
October  clouds  wtih  their  dark-gray  scowl. 
And  set  on  the  mountain  a  man  with  a  drum, 

And  the  Orient  Land  would  be  foul! 

As  soon  as  he  had  written  down  the  last  exclama- 
tion mark  he  sank  down  weary  on  a  bench  and  went 
to  sleep  forthwith.  Ildis  looked  at  him  and  said: 
72 


"As  thou  art  a  writer  of  books,  !t  is  thy  fortune  to    A  Theme 
be  unfortunate.     As  thou  art  so  unfortunate  as  to 
pluck  apart  every  impression,  thou  dost  rob  thy  life 
of  all  joy. — Let  us  go  further!" 

The  watchman  led  her  now  to  the  market-place 
to  a  wealthy  tallow-chandler.  This  man  had  passed 
his  entire  youth  in  a  damp  vault  with  his  chandlery. 
His  provision  for  the  future  had  never  won  him  a 
day's  leisure.  Still  he  was  sitting  on  the  steps  of 
his  house,  evidently  broken-down  and  in  his  dotage, 
but  provided  for. 

Ildis  shook  her  head  and  turned  toward  him. 
"My  friend,  when  thou  didst  labor  for  the  morrow, 
thou  wert  a  self-betrayer,  because  even  before  night 
thou  might'st  have  lain  on  a  bier.  When  thou  didst 
offer  up  thy  youth  for  thy  age,  thou  wert  a  spend- 
thrift who  bought  pebbles  for  diamonds." 

At  last  the  watchman  became  impatient,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  moodily  retired,  while  his  big 
slippers  flapped  on  the  stone  pavement. 

Night  had  already  come  on,  and  Ildis  noted  with 
alarm  that  she  had  arrived  in  front  of  the  forbidding 
hovel  which  was  inhabited  by  Muchail,  the  city 
swineherd,  a  giaour  of  ill-repute,  on  whom  the 
writer  of  books  had  composed  the  following  epigram: 

Muchail  exalts  the  noble  three, 
Tobacco,  dancing-girls  and  wine. 
By  day  the  city  swineherd  he. 
By  night  he  is  the  city  swine. 

73 


A  Theme  Ildis  looked  anxiously  about  her  at  the  empty 
street.  Through  the  half-open  door  she  made  out 
the  handsome,  curly-haired  Muchail,  a  fellow  of 
scarce  twenty,  who  in  the  faintly  lighted  room  was 
talking  in  a  low  voice  with  a  friend.  He  cast  two 
copper  coins  on  the  table  and  cried  to  his  comrade : 

"One  coin  shall  be  thine.  I  am  but  a  poor  swine- 
herd, seest  thou,  but  the  little  that  I  earn  I  always 
divide  with  my  friends  on  condition  that  they  imme- 
diately spend  it.  Do  thou  buy  a  little  tobacco  and 
wine,  and  I'll  knock  at  the  house  of  the  dancing- 
girls.  A  piastre  is  only  a  fish-hook  with  which  one 
catches  a  little  much-sought-after  goldfish  that  is 
called  Happiness.  While  the  others  of  the  city  quite 
absurdly  hoard  up  fish-hooks,  let  us  to-night  catch 
the  fish  themselves!" 

The  maiden  felt  that  she  was  red  with  blushes. 
She  stepped  back  a  couple  of  steps  into  the  bright, 
glad  southern  moonlight  which  outlined  her  shadow 
on  the  door.  She  hesitated,  cautiously  thrust  off  her 
slippers,  and  finally,  barefoot,  stepped  stealthily  up 
on  the  stone  threshold,  hung  the  great  garland  on 
the  key  and  kissed  it.  Then  she  took  the  slippers  in 
her  hand  and  sprang  quickly  away  in  the  shadow  of 
the  houses  as  if  she  had  done  something  wicked. 


74 


THE  HAPPY  ARTISTS.  Happy 

Artists 
Yes,  human  beings, — these  same  bulks  we  see 

In  square  and  street  since,  doubtless  to  oppress  them, 

The  clothes-idea  struck  man's  family, — 

Have  form  and  color,  if  they  but  undress  them. 

I  stretched  my  canvas,  took  up  w^ith  precision 

My  charcoal.    Then  the  model  in  that  cold 

And  blue-gray  light  let  fall  her  garment's  fold, 

And  a  nude  beauty  stood  before  our  vision. 

We  merry  lads  w^ere  seated  all  around, 

While  through  the  frosted  w^indows  came  up-soaring 

The  muffled,  multitudinous  thunder-sound 

Of  smoky  Paris,  like  Niagara's  roaring. 

I  was  the  youngest  student,  to  my  woe. 

How  gladly  I  recall  now  the  occasion 

In  the  first  week  when  I  as  "le  nouveau" 

Danced  for  my  fellow-students'  delectation, 

Wearing  a  mighty  Phrygian  chapeau ! 

Each  man  politely  bade  me  buy  him  soap; 

If  I  forgot,  though,  I  should  get  a  thwacking. 

With  punch  I  sued  for  grace,  but  had  to  mope 

In  thirst  while  all  the  rest  their  lips  were  smacking. 

I  had  to  serve  our  Baal,  the  fire-place. 
Which  glowed  like  any  wine-warm  prelate's  face. 
My  blue-and-yellow  matchbox  with  a  snicker 
They  scrutinized,  and  straightway  bade  me  spell 

75 


Happy   For  hours  together  "sä-ker-hets-tänd-stickor" 
Artists   And  say:  "The  Swedish  language  sounds  like  hell." 
I  soon  made  friends  and,  better  yet,  what  ho ! 
One  day  my  youthful  happiness  was  doubled 
When  o'er  the  threshold  slouched  a  fresh  "nouveau," 
And  I  had  rest  while  he  in  turn  was  troubled. 

We  were  like  mad-cap  boys  and  acted  so. 
What  painter  lacks  the  impulse  or  the  leisure 
To  climb  forthwith  the  giddiest  peak  of  pleasure, 
When  his  tobacco  and  his  punch-bowl  glow, 
Like  sunny  morning  with  new-fallen  snow, 
Such  was  the  spirit  of  our  band's  employment. 
What  clamor  at  the  Cafe  Star  there  was 
Among  these  men,  who  sent  their  brains  to  grass 
And  took  the  whole  world  for  their  eyes'  enjoyment! 
Across  their  pencil-butts  benignly  gazing. 
They  saw  the  gorgeous  town  and  the  attire 
Of  long-gloved  ladies,  costumes  quite  amazing: 
Their  eyes'  delight  was  all  they  could  desire. 

And  yet  their  handwork  never  wholly  filled  me, 
Though  I  with  charcoal  sought  to  play  my  part. 
I  had  at  home  a  shelf  of  books  that  thrilled  me. 
I  scanned  the  world  through  printed  symbol  swart, 
And  through  the  beggar's  rags  I  strove  to  see 
The  inner  man.     I  looked  unceasingly 
With  my  cold  mind  and  with  my  burning  heart. 
Time's  war-cry  in  the  din  I  could  betoken. 
In  wrath  I  gripped  my  charcoal  with  the  will 
76 


To  make  it  glow;  I  tried  my  utmost  skill,  Happy 

A  foot  I  drew,  a  heel — with  that  'twas  broken.  Artists 

Paris  I  wept  not  for,  but  jealous,  lonely, 
I  bade  farewell  to  that  gay  artist  set, 
Who  with  small  genius  of  the  soul  had  yet 
A  genius  gathered  in  the  eye-sight  only. 


77 


Nameless  NAMELESS  AND  IMMORTAL 

and 

Immortal   Finished,  in  Paestum's  rose-embowering  garden, 

Stood  Neptune's  temple,  and  the  man  who  planned 
Sat  near.    His  young  wife,  on  his  shoulder  leaning, 
Spun  with  the  yellow  distaff  in  her  hand. 
She  listened  to  the  piping  of  the  herdsmen 
Who  tended  on  the  hills  their  droves  of  swine, 
And  with  an  almost  childish  joy  she  murmured, 
Twisting  the  flax  about  her  fingers  fine : 
"My  cup  of  happiness  is  filled  to  brimming. 
The  man  who  brings  me  home  to  Naxos'  strand, 
Now  he  has  built  yon  glorious  Neptune  temple. 
Returns,  immortal,  to  his  native  land." 

Then  solemnly  her  husband  answered  her: 

"No,  when  we  die,  our  name  will  pass  away 

A  few  years  after,  but  yon  temple  there 

Will  still  be  standing  as  it  stands  to-day. 

Think  you  an  artist  in  his  time  of  power 

Sees  in  the  background  multitudes  that  shout? 

Nay,  inward,  only  inward,  turns  his  eye. 

And  he  knows  nothing  of  the  world  without. 

'Tis  therefore  that  the  bard  would  weep  hot  blood 

If  he  deliver  not  his  pregnant  soul ; 

But  he  would  kiss  each  line  wherein  he  sees 

His  spirit  live  again,  true-born  and  whole. 

'Tis  in  such  lines  as  these  he  lives  and  moves. 

He  strives  for  immortality — but  mark! 

'Tis  for  his  writings,  never  for  himself ; 

78 


The  man's  true  reputation  is  his  work.  Nameless 

What 's  Homer?    At  the  very  best  a  myth!  and 

We  seek  to  clasp  a  more  enduring  fame.  Immortal 

We  see  the  pulses  leap  on  Homer's  brow, 
For  'Iliad'  has  become  his  mighty  name." 

He  rose,  as  if  to  go,  but  suddenly 
She  caught  him  by  the  cloak  and  held  him  fast 
And  murmured,  while  a  hundred  smiles  dissolved 
In  the  one  look  that  furtively  she  cast: 
"Still  on  a  column  there  your  name  is  carved. 
If  this  proud  vaunt  be  earnest,  as  you  say, 
Take  from  among  the  tools  there  at  your  feet 
The  biggest  sledge  and  hew  the  name  away !" 

He  turned,  he  shot  at  her  a  keen,  quick  glance, 
But  when  she  sat  there  calmly  as  before, 
Twisting  the  flax  into  an  even  thread 
And  gazing  at  the  masts  along  the  shore, 
He  bent  him  down  impulsively  and  took 
The  biggest  sledge ;  his  knuckles  were  distended 
And  then  grew  white  as  wax,  so  hard  he  gripped 
Upon  the  haft.    The  lifted  sledge  descended. 
It  scattered  sparks  from  out  the  column's  side, 
And  at  his  feet  the  steps  were  sprinkled  o'er 
With  rain  of  pointed  shards.     From  that  time  forth 
The  temple  bore  the  artist's  name  no  more. 


Then  with  a  cry  of  joy  his  young  wife  sprang 
Quickly  from  flax  and  distaff  to  the  place, 


79 


Nameless   And  mid  the  scattered  fragments  of  his  fame 

and  She  fell  and  clasped  his  knees  in  her  embrace. 

Immortal  "Ah,  now,"  she  cried,  "no  words  can  tell  my  joy, 

As  we  return  to  Naxos  whence  we  came. 

Now  is  my  lord  a  thousand  times  more  great 

And  'Psestum's  Temple'  is  his  mighty  name!" 

So  evening  fell.     A  single  ship  went  out 
With  lowered  sail,  a  Naxos  flag  had  she. 
Slowly  she  rowed  far  out  against  the  sun 
And  vanished  on  the  mirror  of  the  sea. 

A  thousand  years  and  more  have  passed  away, 
Leveling  Paestum  with  the  verdant  plain. 
But  still  the  temple  stands,  and  in  its  shade 
The  fiddlers  wake  Arcadian  joys  again. 
The  master's  name  may  no  man  surely  know, 
But  all  who  see  the  temple's  gleaming  height 
May  see  his  very  soul  in  yonder  form 
•   '         And  share  to-day  the  architect's  delight. 
He  is  to  me  an  old  beloved  friend — 
Though  far  away,  I  know  him  in  good  truth — 
A  schoolmate,  brother,  comrade  of  my  youth. 


80 


FROM  "THOUGHTS  IN  LONELINESS."      "Thoughts 

in 
*■'  Loneliness'^ 

The  Spark. 

There  Is  a  spark  dwells  deep  within  my  soul. 

To  get  it  out  into  the  daylight's  glow 

Is  my  life's  aim  both  first  and  last,  the  whole. 

It  slips  away,  it  burns  and  tortures  me. 
That  little  spark  is  all  the  wealth  I  know; 
That  little  spark  is  my  life's  misery. 

IL 

An  Elder  Day. 

In  solitude  my  life-years  drift  away; 
I  babble  to  my  dog,  I  stir  my  fire. 
I  do  not  feel  the  loss  of  yesterday, 
'Tis  hours  fled  long  since  that  I  desire. 
When  yonder  bent  and  grizzled  serving-man 
Who  brought  my  supper  in  was  young. 
When,  children  yet,  my  parents  played  among 
The  grasses,  ere  my  life  began. 

IV. 

Childhood  Scenes. 

I've  longed  for  home  these  eight  long  years,  I  know. 
I  long  in  sleep  as  well  as  through  the  day. 

81 


"Thoughts     I  long  for  home,     I  seek  where'er  I  go — 

Ifi  Not  men-folk,  but  the  fields  where  I  would  stray, 

Loneliness"   '^^^  stones  where  as  a  child  I  used  to  play. 

V. 

^  The  Shifting  Self. 

Each  night  my  old  self  in  the  grave  I  lay 

And  get  me  another  on  waking. 

With  a  hundred  thoughts  I  begin  the  day, 

Not  one  to  my  slumber-time  taking. 

'Twixt  sorrow  and  joy  I  roam  without  pause ; 

I  seem  like  a  riddle,  none  dafter. 

But  lucky  is  he  who  for  any  cause, 

Can  burst  into  tears  or  laughter. 

VII. 

My  Mother. 

As  years  would  fade,  I  often  kept  returning 

To  an  old  empty  house,  deserted  quite, 

Its  hundred  windows  burning 

With  vivid  sunset  light. 

Opening  and  closing,  anxiously  I  strayed  there 

From  room  to  room,  but  found  no  clocks  that  swayed 

their 
Bright  pendulums,  nor  furniture  beneath. 
To  the  last  room  I  came.     Displayed  there 
Upon  the  wall  in  withered  wreath 

82 


A  dark,  half-ruined  picture  hung:  "Thoughts 

A  small,  old  dame  in  black  arrayed, —  ;« 

A  starched  cap  round  her  comely  features  clung.       Loneliness" 

And  yonder  woman,  silently  portrayed 

On  canvas  dark,  I  saw  when  I  was  young, 

She  prayed  my  life  might  have  a  worthy  goal. 

And  'twas  her  picture,  when  all  else  was  gone, 

That  still  was  left  me,  that  alone. 

Yon  empty  dwelling  was  my  soul. 

VIII. 

Fame. 

You  seek  for  fame;  but  I  would  choose  another 

And  greater  blessing:  so  to  be  forgotten 

That  none  should  hear  my  name ;  no,  not  my  mother. 

IX. 

Obedience. 

Now  even-song  is  ringing, 

I  ride  to  win  me  rest. 

My  steed,  let  us  be  springing 

Out  into  the  glowing  west! 

How  glad  among  men  my  life  would  be, 

Were  not  "Obey!"  our  A  and  Z! 

If  the  world  had  one  mouth  like  a  great  black  well 
And  should  cry  as  loud  as  a  booming  bell : 
"Obey,  or  in  fetters  double 

83 


"Thoughts     Of  iron  and  wood  thou  shalt  straight  be  bound!" 
ifi  I  hardly  should  take  the  trouble 

Loneliness"   "^^  \o6k  up  and  glance  around. 

If  the  Lord  of  the  World  from  an  evening  cloud 
Should  thunder  "Obey!"  with  menacings  loud, 
I  would  answer:  "Lower  your  voice,  God,  pray, 
And  perhaps  I  shall  hear  what  you  say!" 

My  steed  so  strong, 

Not  yet  do  I  long 

For  my  stuffy  home  and  the  stove. 

Keep  on  for  an  hour,  for  twain  maybe ! 

And  you  purchase  for  me 

Two  hours  of  the  respite  I  love. 

X. 

Helpless  Animals. 

If  I  should  have  a  friend,  one  only  friend. 
And  that  friend  slew  a  helpless  beast  and  gave 
His  hand,  to  which  of  late  mine  warmly  clave. 
Though  I  still  longed  an  answering  grasp  to  lend, 
My  hand  with  his  I  never  more  would  blend. 

If  he  lay  sick,  the  friend  who  had  the  heart 
To  slay  a  helpless  beast,  and  felt  the  smart 
Of  thirst,  and  I  was  sitting  there  beside  him 
On  his  last  night,  no  drink  would  I  provide  him, 
But  fill  and  drain  my  gla§s,  and  so  depart. 
84 


XII.  "Thoughts 

The  Trap.  in 

A  ^       .      ^       T'     1    •  Loneliness" 

A  cunning  trap  1  m  laying. 

Your  love  I  have  truly  sought, 

But  just  as  you  w^ill  be  saying 

Deep  down  in  your  inmost  thought: 

"I'll  give  the  bad  man  his  due  then, 
My  heart  that  he's  begged  so  long;" 
I'll  turn  my  back  on  you  then 
And  make  a  merry  song. 

XVI. 

The  Cup. 

A  mighty  cup  my  sires  possessed, 
A  mighty  great  pew^ter  cup. 
My  heart  is  warmed  as  I  fill  it  up 
And  lift  it  on  high  with  a  zest. 

Then  out  of  the  ale  sighs  an  ancient  song, 
Like  torches  the  strophes  flame. 
God  grant  that  our  children  may  hear  it  long 
While  of  us  it  murmurs  the  same! 

XVII. 

Self-Impatience. 

Within  my  heart  of  hearts  I'm  well  advised 
That  I  am  worst  among  the  men  I  know  of. 

85 


"Thoughts     Not  only  friends  I  mean,  but  this  is  so  of 
lyi  All  those  as  well  whom  I  have  most  despised. 


Loneliness" 


When  comes  the  day  when,  j'oung  and  strong  for 

strife 
I  may  step  forth  and  prove  with  eager  passion 
The  tithe  of  greatness  in  my  composition 
And  for  a  sacred  cause  yield  up  my  life? 


XVIII. 

Insight. 

I've  searched  half  the  world  over  everywhere 
For  a  place  that  I  fairest  might  call. 
So  lovely,  though,  were  they  all 
That  none  could  well  be  most  fair. 

Take  all  that  is  mine  or  mine  can  be, 
But  leave  me  my  one  best  gift: 
That  scenes  may  delight  me,  uplift. 
Which  another  scarcely  would  see. 

XXI. 

A  Farewell. 

You  cared  for  me,  and  at  your  behest 

I'd  have  laid  my  all  at  your  feet. 

But  late  I'd  have  given  the  world,  my  sweet, 

For  your  heart,  your  lips,  your  breast. 

86 


But  luckj'  our  love,  ever  hid  from  sight,  "Thoughts 

Which  bound  not  for  weal  or  for  woe  /^j 

Till  it  languished  away,  till  we  slew  it  outright  Loneliness" 
By  faults  neither  one  could  forego ! 

What  can  be  forgotten  with  years,  forget! 
Cast  me  out  as  a  corpse  might  be  cast! 
This  mournful  dream  of  our  love  may  be  yet 
A  memory  of  youth  at  the  last. 

XXIV. 

Self-Atonement. 

Too  proud  am  I  to  see  another  suffer 

A  death  abhorred 

My  guilt  to  ease; 

Too  tender  to  look  on  when  Christ  should  offer 

To  thorns  his  forehead — 

My  thorns  are  these. 

For  my  life's  care,  in  my  heart  I  hide  it. 

The  sin  that  I  on  man  and  beast  have  wrought 

And  against  thee,  O  Nature,  be  it  brought 

Upon  my  life,  and  let  my  memory  abide  it ! 

XXVI. 

Last  Prayer. 

Quickly  my  little  life  will  have  departed. 
To  whom  then  should  I  pray,  if  at  the  last  I  could, 

87 


"Thoughts     Lying  upon  my  pillow,  heavy-hearted 

Ifl  For  the  much  ill  I'd  done  and  little  good? 


Loneliness' 


Shall  hopeless  prayers  be  hushed  in  their  up-spring- 
ing? 
Shall  I  in  dumb  despair  upon  my  death-bed  lie? 
Or  to  deaf  Nature's  might  shall  I  be  flinging 
A  cry  that  fades  away  without  reply? 

No,  but  I  will  pray,  lest  my  spirit  harden. 

Silent  but  heart-warm  prayers  to  those  of  my  own 

clay. 
That  they  forgive  my  sins  as  theirs  I  pardon. 
Unto  my  living  fellow-men  I'll  pray. 


F%p,M  ''TOe<J^S'' 


FROM  "THE  FOREST  OF  TIVEDEN." 

Part  I. 

Hark  how  the  fir-trees  in  dismal  tones, 
Like  the  minor  discords  of  drum  and  horn, 
Sing  a  weird  lament,  all  squeaks  and  groans, 
That  trolls  have  composed  in  this  land  forlorn! 

And  here,  while  gnat-swarms  pipe  and  dance, 

Past  ages  arise  as  in  a  trance. 

These  great  ferns  grew  in  an  earlier  aeon ; 

Those  moss-grown  rocks  with  impending  mass 

Are  piled  in  a  rampart  Cyclopean ; 

Each  rotten  log  in  the  wild  morass 

Is  a  deep-sea  monster  that  here  sticks  out 

At  the  edge  of  the  water  his  dripping  snout. 

With  its  reptile-like  scales,  yonder  pine-tree's  root 
So  deep  in  the  mud  seems  a  saurian's  foot; 
And  others,  like  spiders,  are  poised  unsteady 
On  the  edge  of  the  cliffs  where  the  step  grows  giddy. 

But  silence !    A  shaggy  head  is  shaking 

The  net-work  of  twigs,  the  dry  stumps  breaking 

And  laying  them  low  on  the  heather  dense. 

'Tis  the  elk.    As  mighty  and  immense 

As  a  mastodon,  he  now  is  slaking 

His  thirst  in  the  swamp.     He  looks  about. 

Wild-eyed,  at  the  mountains  that  shut  him  in, 

91 


''The  Forest 
of  Tiveden" 


"The  Forest  While  silvery  threads  are  trickling  out 
of  Tiveden^'    O^  his  panting  muzzle  and  bearded  chin. 

The  haughty  pine,  as  if  in  fear 

Of  the  light,  creeps  close  to  the  gravel  here. 

See  the  mountains!  they  rise  not  in  splendid  shapes 

Of  eternal  snow,  but  are  squat  and  gray; 

They  stand  like  beggars  in  thread-bare  capes 

That  are  dingy  now  since  many  a  day. 

And  had  we  the  murkiest  words  at  hand 

They  were  not  dark  or  gloomy  enow 

To  paint  in  verse  that  primeval  land 

Which  is  ever  preaching:  "Renounce,  forsake!" 

The  peasant  bites  at  his  black  rye  cake, 

And  loose  stones  rattle  beneath  his  plough. 

How  gray,  how  clad  in  joylessness 

Are  all  of  the  scenes  that  meet  me ! 

My  native  soil,  in  the  ragged  dress 

Of  poverty  you  greet  me. 


92 


HOME.  Homi 

I'm  longing  for  the  forest: 
The  pathway  in  the  grasses, 
The  house  that  on  the  ness  is. 
What  orchards  hold  such  apples 
Deep-hid  from  eager  spying? 
What  grain,  when  zephyr  dapples. 
Can  breathe  so  soft  a  sighing? 
Where  can  I  better  slumber 
When  bells  the  night-hours  number? 

Where  do  my  memories  tarry? 
Where  are  my  dead  still  living? 
Where  do  I  live  undaunted. 
Though  years  with  sordid  fingers 
My  fate  are  grayly  weaving? 
I  like  a  shade  have  haunted 
The  place  where  memory  lingers. 
Oh,  seek  not  near  to  hover. 
Although  the  doors  are  fastened 
And  matted  strewings  cover 
The  steps,  where  winds  have  hastened 
And  dropped  the  leaves  that  wither. 
Bring  new-voiced  laughter  hither. 
Let  new  floods  from  these  places 
Bear  me,  their  banks  o'erswelling. 
Unto  the  silent  races. 
I  sit  within  here  lonely, 

93 


Home   Myself  a  memory  only, — 
This  is  my  kingly  dwelling. 

Oh,  say  not  that  our  elders. 

Whose  eyes  are  closed  forever, 

That  those  we  fain  would  banish 

And  from  our  lives  would  sever, — 

Say  not  their  colors  vanish 

Like  flowers  and  like  grasses, 

That  we  from  hearts  efface  them 

Like  dust,  when  one  would  clear  it 

From  ancient  window-glasses. 

In  power  they  upraise  them, 

A  host  they  of  the  spirit. 

The  whole  wide  earth  enshrouding, 

Our  thoughts  too  overclouding, 

Whate'er  our  fate  or  fortune. 

Our  thoughts,  like  swallows  crowding, 

Fly  home  at  evening  duly. 

A  home !  how  firm  its  base  is 

By  walls  securely  shielded, — 

Our  world — the  one  thing  truly 

We  in  this  world  have  builded. 


94 


CHILDHOOD  FRIENDS.  Childhood 

Friends 

One  evening  the  Hall  folk  during  a  storm 

Took  a  pack  of  old  pictures  as  cards  and  played 

Round  a  plate  on  which  toffy  and  apples  were  laid. 

The  stoves  with  shut  damper  were  glowing  warm, 

In  eddying  flakes  the  snow  was  flurried 

Against  the  panes,  that  were  coated  with  frost, 

No  jingle  told  that  friends  or  the  post 

Through    the    deepening    drifts    of    the    roadway 

hurried. 
Three  ancient  sisters  were  heirs  of  the  place, 
Who  now,  as  in  their  grandmother's  days, 
Shuffled  the  pack  in  the  lamplight's  glow 
And  dealt  out  the  people  they  used  to  know. 
With  every  picture  they  got  for  their  hands 
They  would  softly  twitch  at  their  shawls  a  while, 
Would  speak  of  old  times  and  simper  and  smile. 
And  shake  their  bonnets  with  ribbon  bands. 
A  Lieutenant  von  Platen  they  used  as  a  jack, 
A  homely  Miss  Dubb  was  "old  maid"  of  the  pack. 

The  cards  of  the  eldest  would  slip  unduly. 
She  heard  her  sisters  conversing  coolly 
Of  bygone  days — and  night  came  on, 
But  she  sat  with  them  silent,  as  if  alone. 
The  poodle  slunk  with  an  anxious  whine 
From  her  lap,  then  snifFed  and  with  fixed  stare 
Looked  up  at  the  vacant  easy-chair. 
Which,  they  say,  with  a  beast  is  a  certain  sign 

95 


Childhood  It  sees  a  dead  man  in  his  wonted  place, 
Friends         Where  by  night  as  by  day  is  but  empty  space. 

She  was  sunk  in  thought. — With  a  far-off  gaze, 
As  one  who  hears  an  old  song  to  a  zither, 
She  recalled  a  friend  of  her  childhood  days, 
Who  had  left  her.     They  played  as  two  larks  that 

twitter. 
She  was  older  a  year  but  as  wild  as  he. 
They  leapt  into  brooks  amid  splashing  water, 
And  hand  in  hand  they  would  wander  free 
On  the  darkening  heath.     She  saw  that  he  thought 

her 
Too  old,  wishing:  "Were  you  but  small  and  were 

you 
Afraid  when  we  hark  to  the  fir-trees  sighing, 
So  that  I  over  gate  and  stile  must  bear  you 
And  through  the  bushes  where  snakes  are  lying! 
You  were  born  ten  summers  too  soon  for  me." — 
So  he  thought  as  he  walked  by  her  moodily. 
Then  quickly  as  hands  of  masons,  plying. 
The  vaults  and  spires  of  a  palace  might  rear. 
They  built  up  their  lives  with  day  and  year. 
When  he  had  reached  spring,  her  summer  was  near. 
She  sprinkled  beans  in  the  porridge-vessel 
And  pounded  cinnamon  with  her  pestle 
And  set  it  out  on  the  family  board. 
While  he  thought:  "How  soon  the  rose-tree  is  laden 
With  bloom!    You  should  still  be  a  little  maiden 
96 


Who'd  hark  on  my  knee  to  my  every  word  Childhood 

Of  the  wide,  strange  world  my  vision  had  stored         Friends 

From  tales  that  in  painter's  ink  were  set." — 

Then  down  on  their  hearts  there  snowed  regret, 

For  she  understood  and  suffered  no  less. 

They  went  to  the  lake  and  in  deep  distress 

Sat  down  with  hand  to  forehead  and  wept; 

But  they  changed  the  rings  from  their  fingers  then, 

For  well  did  they  know  that  never  again 

Could  they  give  to  another  the  rings  they  kept. 

He  went  on  his  way,  his  spurs  he  earned 

In  distant  countries  where  battle  burned. 

When,  blackened  with  smoke,  his  horse  in  a  lather, 

He  led  on  his  men,  he  was  gay  and  erect. 

But  when  in  the  noisy  night  they  would  gather 

Around  the  camp-fire,   forest-decked. 

Each  one  by  a  girl  with  a  flask  at  his  lips. 

Though  their  coats  were  bloody  and  shot  into  strips; 

In  silent  gloom  apart  from  the  crew 

He  sat,  until,  as  if  roused  anew 

By  a  bell,  he  recklessly  sprang  from  the  grass; 

Then,  wilder  than  all,  to  his  mouth  he  drew 

Each  Circe  or  cluster  of  grapes  he  would  pass. 

The  minutes  in  Time's  great  hour-glass 

More  quickly  slipped.     His  cheek  was  aflame, 

More  young  with  every  year  he  became, 

A  rebel,  who  at  seventy  still 

Might  wait  the  first  wound  of  his  foeman's  skill 

Which  furrows  the  outer  bastion's  frame. 

97 


Childhood   He  moved  in  a  tumult  of  glad  alarm, 
Friends         B"t  his  heart  was  asleep  on  his  one  love's  arm. 
One  night,  vv^hen  the  rain  w^as  pouring  down, 
All  scratched  and  heated,  he  clambered  out 
Of  a  countess's  window,  and  gazed  about 
And  thought  as  he  looked  at  the  town: 

"When  a  daughter  lies  to  her  mother,  we  say 

Love's  vaunted  sun  approaches  the  prime. 

When  she  lies  to  him  she  has  sworn  to  obey, 

Her  heart  feels  love  for  the  second  time. 

Like  a  sneaking  thief  with  skeleton  keys 

Love  breaks  through  all  vows  and  promises. 

There  is  not  in  love  one  man  of  honor. 

Would  you  see  the  worst  scoundrels  that  ever  drank 

At  breast,  then  behold  them  rank  on  rank. 

When  the  whispering  couples  beneath  Love's  banner 

Go  by,  each  pair  with  fetters  that  clank. 

As  in  long  parade  through  the  streets  they  walk 

With  insult  and  He  and  slanderous  talk ; 

For  merely  to  watch  how  lovers  gloat 

Enkindles  in  others  the  mean  and  the  low. 

The  sage,  whether  clad  in  toga  or  coat. 

Closes  his  window  and  laughs  at  the  show. 

Next  to  the  waiter  and  the  woman's  physician 

The  lover's  the  man  that  merits  derision. 

Wise  married  man,  let  your  blood  be  chill, 

And  leave  him  to  play  his  vaudeville, 

For  the  horn  he  stealthily  gives  you  to  wear 

Is  less  droll  than  the  ass's  ears  be  must  bear 

98 


Himself  when  he  sips  enchanted  of  Childhood 

The  cup  where  you  sated  your  youth's  glad  ire.         Friends 

Where  in  all  the  befuddling  joust  of  love 

Are  the  noble  raptures  men  sing  to  the  lyre? 

These  lovers  will  start  if  you  rap  on  the  door 

Like  a  school  of  fishes  you  scare  with  an  oar. 

Had  love  the  worth  of  two  rhymes  in  it, 

Don  Juan,  who  laughs  as  he  leans  on  his  blade, 

Would  not  be  the  one  man  who  boldly  flayed 

The  avenger's  back  with  his  scourging  wit. 

Is  thirst  a  fine  thing  because  throats  will  thirst? 

When  the  amorous  poets,  of  liars  the  first, 

Have  set  at  the  window  the  doll  they  admire, 

With  its  rattle  they  lure  the  next  passer-by, 

For  never  doll  danced  before  lover's  eye 

But  it  wakened  a  thrill  of  selfish  desire. 

Nay,  to  what  likeness  does  love  aspire? 

It  is  but  a  little  scampering  rat. 

That  jumps  in  your  way  as  you're  going  to  bed, 

And  flies  behind  plank  and  door  at  your  tread. 

And  because  it  slinks  off  in  such  mortal  dread 

'Tis  a  mark  for  the  stone  of  each  beggar  brat. 

Think  not  that  Love  hides  a  dream  that  is  fraught 

With  cradles  or  any  such  worthy  thought; 

He's  a  tippler  who  in  his  secret  lair 

Pulls  his  cap  down  and  whispers:  "There's  steps  on 

the  stair — 
Don't  pause  but  toss  off  the  glass  without  heed." 
The  animal-lover,  who  cuts  the  cork 
And  hook  from  the  fishing-rod,  who  will  feed 

99 


Childhood  His  sweetheart's  tiny  linnet  with  seed, 
Friends         Will  none  the  less  look  askance  at  the  stork. 
When  love  goes  to  sleep,  our  souls  first  move 
To  strains  of  deep  feeling  that  will  not  pass. 
Is  a  mother  not  more  than  a  toying  lass? 
But  the  child  she  holds  is  the  corpse  of  love. 
On  the  mount  of  the  gods,  where  in  vain  their  liege  is 
Opposing  to  time  his  broken  aegis, 
With  gray-haired  Bacchus  near  by,  we  see 
In  never-changing  stupidity 
Fat  Venus,  who  sits  like  a  country  girl 
As  she  fastens  a  ribbon  around  a  curl. 
I  furthermore  count  as  a  grievous  fault 
That  blondest  of  hair  which  she  thus  attires. 
She  never  glows,  she  only  perspires ; 
For  blondes  are  as  bread  that  is  baked  without  salt, 
And  their  table-talk  is  inept  and  stale. 
Then  black  hair,  too,  conceals  without  fail 
A  faithless  lust  for  daggers  and  death ; 
And  no  dream  could  portray  under  bridal  wreath 
The  hair  that  God  gave  the  horse  for  his  tail. 
But    soft    chestnut-brown,    where    the    sun-beams 

dapple. 
Whose  tints  with  the  tones  of  Correggio  strive. 
To  such,  O  Iduna,  I  give  thine  apple, 
That 's  the  hair  to  bewitch  any  man  alive. 
In  brief,  on  dazzling  shoulders  hangs 
The  blondest  hair  ever  curled  in  bangs. 
Or  twined  with  gold  and  sent  for  a  drive. 
She  pats  on  the  cheek  the  first  groom  she  meets 
100 


And  goes  with  his  smell  to  the  emperor's  sheets.         Childhood 
Don't  try  her  with  thoughts,  for  she'll  puff  them   Friends 

away ; 
Take  your  gloves  off  and  smack  her  buttocks  in  play, 
Then  wink  and  step  on  her  toes  a  bit, 
That's  the  wooing  that  suits  Lady  Venus's  wit. 
But  if  evil  thoughts  in  her  mind  shall  flow, 
She'll  poison  the  dart  on  Cupid's  bow. 
It  is  only  to  children,  who  sportively  bear 
Her  apples  and  doves  while  they  dream  of  her  blisses, 
That  the  smirking  deceiver  appears  as  fair 
With  thirst-cooling  clusters  of  baneful  kisses. 
Yet  there  's  no  stout  oak  of  kingliest  frame 
But  the  whistling  hail  will  shatter  its  crest; 
The  hurt  man  will  dig  his  nails  in  his  breast, 
And  curse,  as  I  do,  her  might  and  her  name. 
He  alone  on  earth  wins  a  great  career 
Who,  lost  in  thought,  has  passed  by  the  dame. 
How  pallid  her  failing  lamp  will  appear, 
When  the  love  your  own  effort  has  brought  to  birth 
Flings  arms  of  flame  around  heaven  and  earth !" 

So  he  spoke,  while  with  dripping  hat 

Over  swimming  highway  and  field  he  strode. 

At  length  on  the  grass  in  his  tent  he  sat. 

Determined  to  fly  by  whatever  road 

His  horse  should  choose,  on  that  very  night. 

But  the  deepest  wood  and  the  swiftest  river 

Afford  not  oblivion's  refuge  ever 

For  the  self-doomed  man  who  has  taken  to  flight. 

101 


Childhood   When  he  jumped  down  one  evening  with  clattering 

Friends  sword 

To  the  doorstep  of  home  from  the  robes  of  his  sledge, 

He  saw  by  the  lantern's  light  that  poured 

On  her  as  she  stood  bj'  the  privet  hedge 

Amid  full-grown  sisters,  that  on  her  face 

The  claws  of  time  had  been  digging  their  trace. 

He  looked  and  he  looked,  as  sad  and  still 

As  is  a  cloudless  October  morn, 

When  you  note  how  on  floor  and  window-sill 

The  lilac-tree  shadow  is  faint  and  forlorn, 

A  thin  net  of  cords  and  knots,  though  bright 

The  sun  on  the  pane  is  shedding  his  light. 

He  clasped  her  as  hard  as  in  time  of  wreck 

Two  drunkards  in  terror  embrace  on  the  deck, 

For  she  was  still  the  one  love  of  his  heart. 

As,  when  children,  they  turned  with  a  frightened 

start 
On  the  bridge  by  the  cliff  and  listened  long 
To  the  water's  subterranean  surge. 
They  heard  now  afar  the  threatening  song 
Of  coming  fate's  inescapable  urge. 

The  holy  wedding-day  soon  approached, 

When    spiggots    v/ere    hammered    and    casks   were 

broached. 
The  hop-wine  into  the  pitchers  had  raced, 
The  birches  along  the  corridor  placed 
102 


Like  a  guard  of  honor  were  stiffly  standing.  Childhood 

Fat  fowls  under  the  axe  had  bled.  Friends 

Each   floor  was  leaf-strewn,   and   rose-leaves  were 

spread 
By  the  sisters  from  sieves  on  each  stair  and  landing. 
For  the  drive  to  church  the  waggon  was  wound 
With  veils  that  had  ever  been  saved  by  all 
The  maidens  whose  heads  had  been  myrtle-crowned 
This  fifty  years  past  up  at  the  Hall. 
But  alone  in  her  room  through  all  the  worry 
She  left  her  sisters  to  toil  and  hurry. 
Each  hour's  time  held  a  life's  distress. 
On  her  lap  lay  her  sable  wedding-dress, 
For  a  garment  of  white  beseems  but  the  young. 
At  the  heaven  of  fate  with  clouds  overhung 
She  stared,  while  a  storm  in  her  bosom  held  sway; 
She  saw  there  but  gloom  that  never  was  lighted. 
In  her  grief  she  sat,  like  an  autumn  day 
Where  flowers  are  left,  but  all  of  them  blighted. 
Yet  when  eager  across  the  threshold  he  stepped. 
She  quietly  took  his  hands  in  her  own 
And  told  him  of  all  that,  silent,  alone. 
Through  years  of  pain  she  had  secretly  wept. 
Then  a  chilly  glint  fell  on  everything. 
And  across  the  black  dress  that  lay  on  her  knee 
She  tremblingly  gave  him  back  the  ring. 
While  she  spoke  so  low  that  near  by  on  a  tree 
A  sparrow  tranquilly  plumed  her  wing: 

103 


Childhood   "My  love  is  my  life,  my  all  upon  earth, 
Friends         And   yours  but  the  warmth  of   the  home-cheering 
hearth, 
Where  you'll  shiver  soon  at  the  weaning  blaze. 
I  should  have  stayed  on  in  my  springtime  days. 
We  must  not  be  bound  by  riveted  links 
Till  each  hates  the  other,  and  moans  and  shrinks. 
I  beg  you  forget  me.     I  close  my  breast 
And  only  long  for  the  sleep  of  the  grave. 
But  I  know  that  my  spirit  is  still  possessed 
Of  a  chain  that  holds  you  at  my  behest 
With  the  memory-links  that  our  springtime  gave, 
Which  are  set  with  jewels  of  deeper  glow 
Than  love  with  its  gleam  as  from  hell  below. 
Whenever  you  seek  to  give  to  another 
.    The  ring  that  now  from  my  hand  is  warm. 
You  will  stand  there  pale,  your  eyes  you  will  cover, 
Then  stunned  and  waking  you'll  check  your  arm. 
Between  two  eternities  we  have  met — 
And  we  part — That  you're  gone  I  may  think  sin- 
cerely ; 
But  it's  only  an  error,  illusion  merely. 
The  brooding  man  holds  his  compasses  yet 
On  the  circle  in  which  his  thoughts  are  bound 
And  like  wolves  go  anxiously  round  and  round; 
Great  men  of  the  day,  a  contented  set. 
In  street-corner  conference  go  and  come; 
New  friends  at  his  heart  are  knocking  there 
And  guests  tramp  up  the  snow-covered  stair 
To  be  welcomed  by  him  on  the  porch  of  his  home — 
104 


They  are  all  but  as  painted  figures  that  roam  Childhood 

Over  ceiling  and  wall  through  a  great  hall's  space,   Friends 

Where  we  two  as  ever  stand  face  to  face. 

My  fate  with  your  fate  is  interwrought, 

And  thousands  must  fight  the  fight  we  have  fought, 

Where  love  attains  more  than  love  can  give. 

The  one  whom  you  love  as  long  as  you  live, 

The  one  who  has  gained  your  every  thought, 

Is  old  and  faded ;  you  never  can 

Give  her  the  love  that  love  seeks  to  own. 

You  shall  wander  about  as  a  homeless  man, 

Shall  reap  but  thistles  where  flowers  you've  sown. 

But  ever  your  longing  heart  shall  grieve 

In  its  wish  to  love  her  and  her  alone, 

As  birds  might  love  when  their  glad  wings  cleave 

The  air  all  aglow  with  the  summer's  fire, 

And  your  heart  shall  be  wasted  with  vain  desire." 

It  was  thus  that  she  spoke  the  day  he  went. 
And  she  fell  in  a  faint  as  his  wheels  rolled  away. 
Now  rising,  above  the  side-board  she  leant 
Where  the  Christmas  tarts  and  cookies  lay. 

That  evening  she  dealt  them  every  one 

To  the  manor  servants,  who  when  it  was  done 

Were  filled  with  surprise  by  the  kitchen  board 

At  the  prodigal  food  and  candle-light. 

Her  sisters  alone  caught  the  whispered  word : 

"My  dearest  memory  makes  its  flight 

Through  the  storm  to  guest  in  our  house  to-night, 

105 


Childhood  It  has  come  over  dusky  waters  and  lands 
Friends         ^^^  has  laid  on  my  hair  two  blessing  hands." 

The  Hall  soon  slept,  the  panes  no  more  shone, 
But,  deep  in  a  problem  that  baffles  all  skill, 
Awake  in  the  arm-chair,  hushed  and  still, 
A  little  parched  woman  was  sitting  alone. 


106 


SINGERS  IN  THE  STEEPLE.  Singers 

At  the  belfry  window  the  ringer  stood, 
A  vigorous  form  of  giant  size. 
His  thatch  of  red  hair,  unkempt  and  rude, 
Was  blown  down  over  his  eyes. 

Ding!     Dong! 

He  tramped  at  the  treadle  and  sang  his  song: 

"Thou  mighty  thundering  church-bell,  thou. 
With  lips  and  tongue  of  metal  that  ring, 
Thou  callest  the  people  to  worship  now, 
But  this  my  own  psalm  I  prefer  to  sing. 
The  weary  week-days  back  to  Monday 
Are  slaves  to  the  rich  man,  the  money-lord. 
The  only  day  that  steals  from  his  hoard 
A  paltry  copper  is  Sunday. 
His  life  is  a  heaven.     Ours  instead 
Is  a  hell.    We  are  ragged  and  eat  hard  bread. 
At  home  our  loved  ones  are  sighing. 
While  starved  we  row  for  a  surfeited  race 
Their  barge  of  trade  with  sweat  in  our  face 
And  weep  at  the  oars  we  are  plying." 

Ding!    Dong! 

"May  vengeance  dire  consume  them! 
When  shall  I  ring  in  redress  of  wrong. 
And  God's  own  judgment  doom  them? 


"From  our  starving  flesh  they  cut  off  a  pound 
To  make  the  money-lord  fat  and  round. 


107 


Singers   But  beware,  money-lord,  your  knell  will  be  rung! 
Oppression  is  old  but  freedom  is  young. 
She  comes  as  a  thief  in  the  night. 
She  waits  not  to  knock,  but  in  she  breaks 
She  tramples  your  carpets  and  hers  she  makes 
Whatever  you  snatched  with  your  might. 

"There  's  a  mine  of  powder  by  no  means  small 
In  the  cellars  under  your  castle  wall. 
A  spark,  and  the  mob  will  rally." 

Ding!     Dong! 

"We  bring  an  armful  of  stones  along, 

With  torches  we  sally 

From  hovel  and  alley. 

We  shame  your  wife,  we  stick  your  swine, 

We  spill  on  the  street  your  costliest  wine. 

Your  roan  must  pull  where  we  have  striven. 

And  when  to  ashes  your  castle  is  burned, 

Our  hell  will  be  turned 

At  once  into  your  proud  heaven. 

"From  our  huts  to  the  square  we  all  drag  out 

Our  straw  and  our  tatters  clout  by  clout. 

On  them  shall  your  throne  be,  O  money-king. 

And  your  plundered  purse  for  your  apple  we'll  bring. 

And  drummers  shall  come  and  stand  around 

To  thunder  and  pound 

On  your  kitchen  saucepans  furiously, 

And  fifers  shall  toot  in  time  with  them 

On  crystal   decanters  your  requiem. 

108 


Above,  your  house  totters,  while  sparks  begem  Singers 
Your  smoke-woven  canopy. 
Your  dirge  to  the  skies  will  groan  now. 
And  beggars  will  bring  live  coals  to  fire 
The  straw-heap  that  is  your  throne  now. 
They  dance  in  a  ring  around  your  pyre, 
While  I  sing  bass  in  the  men's  deep  song. 
And  I  ring  in  so  loudly  your  final  hour 
That  earth  re-echoes  my  strokes  of  power." 
Ding!    Dong! 

Up  on  the  tower  beams  beside  him  sat 
His  wife  in  silence.     Then  she  followed  him 
Down  the  steep  ladder's  length,  she  followed  on 
In  silent  thought  down  churchyard  pathways  trim. 
Beside  their  cottage  lay  a  narrow  plot 
Of  garden  by  a  hill,  all  baked  and  dry. 
Thither  she  went  alone,  but  in  her  ears 
Still  rang  the  deep  bell  and  her  husband's  cry. 
He,  harsh  and  wild,  slunk  off  as  was  his  wont 
To  drink  and  gamble  at  a  neighbor's  house. 
She  sat  her  down  among  the  stones  beneath 
The  mingled  maple  and  wild  cherry  boughs. 
To  save  her  Sunday  shoes  she  loosened  them 
And  slowly  took  them  off.     With  playful  air 
She  wove  for  fun  a  chain  of  maple  leaves 
And  fastened  on  some  cherries  here  and  there. 
Then  she  sprang  up,  hearing  a  man's  voice  nigh 
And  sound  of  more  men  coming,  vaulted  o'er 
The  latticed  garden  gate  with  nimble  bound, 

109 


Singers  And  ran  until  she  reached  the  steeple  door. 

There  she  stepped  in,  afraid  she  might  be  caught 
Running  bare-footed  on  a  Sabbath  day. 
In  the  dark  steeple,  under  the  round  bell. 
She,  young  and  sunburnt,  held  her  leaf  array. 

She  listened  long;  at  last,  when  no  one  came. 
Quickly  around  her  neck  the  wreath  she  threw 
And  climbed  the  steep  rungs  higher,  higher  yet, 
Until  the  floor  had  vanished  from  her  view. 

Dull  in  the  wood-work  whined  the  eddying  draught. 
With  bended  foot  and  practiced  hand  she  stood 
Upon  the  rungs  as  upon  tight-stretched  cords 
And  held  on  steadfastly  with  resolute  mood. 
Through  loop-holes  she  could  see  the  market-place, 
But  all  was  dark  beneath  her  in  the  tower. 
At  every  step  the  bell  became  more  large, 
And  men  grew  smaller  on  the  street  below  her. 
Breathless  and  flushed   and  warm  she  reached  the 

bell  ; 
Like  to  a  loved  and  trusted  friend  she  found  it, 
And  when  she  smote  her  knuckles  on  its  rim, 
Whispered  vibrations  fluttered  all  around  it. 
But  higher  still  the  narrow  steps  led  on. 
Boldly  at  last  with  lifted  hands  she  swung 
Up  to  the  narrow  beam.     The  bell  below, 
Dumbly  upon  its  bright-worn  axis  hung. 
One  arm  across  the  beam,  she  twined  her  chain 
Of  maple  leaves  around  the  brazen  crest, 
110 


So  that  the  green-gray  giant  suddenly  Singers 

Was  as  a  maiden  for  her  bridal  dressed. 

The  service  done,  the  ringer  came,  but  paused 

In  dumb  surprise,  his  arm  against  a  beam, 

To  note  the  verdant  head-dress  of  the  bell 

With  reddish-purple  cherries  all  agleam. 

His  wife  had  often  rung  the  bell  before; 

She  waited  not  his  grumble  or  his  frown 

But  on  the  well-worn  treadle  of  the  bell 

She  set  her  foot,  strong-sinewed,  bare  and  brown. 

The  bell  swayed  heavily  from  side  to  side, 

Now  the  first  deafening  strokes  were  heard  to  ring. 

With  that  the  frightened  jackdaws  raised  a  cry, 

And  tower,  roof  and  beams  began  to  swing. 

Ding!     Dong! 


She  tramped  at  the  treadle  and  sang  her  song: 

"From  the  tower's  quivering  height 

Ring  forth  over  square  and  street! 

Afar  lies  the  plain  with  its  waving  wheat 

And  the  woods  where  the  sun  glows  bright. 

Not  only  over  the  fields  and  bays. 

Where,  O  bell,  thy  notes  are  hurled. 

But  over  the  weeks  and  years  I  gaze 

To  the  brothering-time  of  the  world. 

I  see  not  savage  and  weaponed  men, 

Not  kindled  cities  aflame — 

Such  a  world  would  be  but  again 

The  old  world,  the  ill  world,  the  same. 

Ill 


Singers   "Nay,  the  city  is  festive.     Bells  are  clanging. 
At  every  doorway  garlands  are  seen. 
Between  the  houses  festoons  are  hanging, 
The  street  is  all  like  an  arbor  of  green. 
A  forest  of  flags  on  the  house-tops  is  swaying 
And  streamers  by  thousands  and  thousands  are  play- 
ing. 
The  mightiest  pennon  gleams  and  arches 
From  the  golden  vane  of  the  steeple. 
Like  brothers  below  pass  the  people, 
For  rich  man  with  poor  man  marches. 
They  meet  not  for  strife  but  for  shaking  of  hands, 
As  now  are  gathered  the  reaper  bands 
For  the  haying-feast  at  midsummer  time. 
Then  my  daughter's  daughter  shall  climb 
To  the  bell  where  the  rafters  sway, 
And,  brown  of  hue  and  young  and  strong 
As  I,  shall  ring  in  the  brothering-day." 

Ding!     Dong! 

"Then,  drawn  by  white  horses  with  plumes  of  white 

At  a  walk,  a  carriage  comes  in  sight, 

A  carriage  with  silvered  wagon-prong." 

Ding!    Dong! 

"Around  it  are  children  in  white  arrayed. 

The  rain  of  flowers  has  overlaid 

So  deeply  the  stones  of  the  street  below 

That  softly  the  wheels  as  on  carpets  go. 

On  the  carriage,  the  goal  of  every  eye 

Stands  a  mighty  cup  exalted  high, 

112 


A  bowl  whereon  wreaths  of  corn-flowers  twine,         Singers 
And  along  the  rim  these  letters  shine: 
Not  joy  to  the  rich,  to  the  poor  man  care; 
Our  toil  and  our  pleasure  alike  we  share. 

"The  crowd  makes  way  for  the  carriage  to  come, 

The  murmurs  grow  silent,  the  people  stand  dumb ; 

Only  the  sound  of  the  bells  is  rolled, 

Like  a  seraph-song  from  the  blue  down-sailing. 

Then  the  heads  are  bared,  both  young  and  old. 

Then  matrons  and  maidens  look  pale  and  cold 

As  they  stand  by  their  balcony  railing. 

Unsparing,  each  tears  in  pieces 

The  necklace  that  brother  or  husband  gave, 

Strips  of?  the  rings  that  sparkle  so  brave, 

And  her  arms  from  jewels  releases. 

They  climb  on  the  railings  one  and  all 

And  into  the  mighty  cup  let  fall 

Their  wealth,  where  the  flowers  blending 

Hide  with  their  petals  the  bad  gold's  gleam. 

Like  rain-drops  in  banded  light  descending, 

From  festive  balconies  falls  the  stream." 

Ding!     Dong! 

"With  sudden  tears  the  most  hardened  of  men 
Swears  to  abide  by  his  fellows  then 
In  weal  or  woe  his  whole  life  long 
As  a  son,  a  brother,  one  of  their  clay. 
The  tender  woman  in  man  shall  bring 
Redemption  to  all  the  world  and  ring 
In  the  future's  brothering-day." 

113 


Cradle-        THE  CRADLE-SONGS  OF  GOLDILOCKS. 

Songs  of 


Goldilocks 


I. 

Seek,  little  Goldilocks,  to  and  fro. 

Where  should  our  thoughts  be  flying? 

Dark  is  thy  father's  bed  and  low. 

Grasses  wave  when  the  night-winds  blow, 

Softly  above  him  sighing. 

All  of  me  that  was  dear  to  him, 

Braided  tresses  heavy  and  dim 

Over  my  jacket  straying; 

All  that  I  loved  in  him  the  while. 

Lofty  brow  and  the  mischievous  smile 

Over  his  curved  lips  playing; 

All  that  in  either  could  set  a-dance 

The  other's  pulses  and  voice  and  glance 

Is  in  thy  life  united. 

Oh  my  son,  my  beloved  son, 

Vainly  the  world  with  curse  and  stone 

Lawless  love  would  have  blighted. 

Lawless  love,  which  even  I 

Wept  for,  has  sprung  into  blossom  now. 

On  toward  the  future  it  goes;  it  is  thou, 

'Tis  a  race  that  will  never  die. 

XL 

(Mumble,  tumble,  bumble-bee!) 
In  a  spider-woven  tent 
Under  shining  raindrops  bent, 
114 


Beetle  ladies  form  a  ring  Cradle- 

Round  Miss  Ladybird,  Songs  of 

And,  when  she  says  anything,  Goldilocks 

Smirk  at  every  word, 
Bow  at  what  they've  heard. 
Grasses  all  the  meadow  through 
Wear  wee  bells  of  heavenly  blue. 
And  some  hundred  ants  there,  too. 
Listen  from  behind  the  stalks. 
Hark  now  when  the  lady  talks! 

(Mumble,  tumble,  bumble-bee!) 

Watchman  Glow-w^orm,  bring  me  here 

The  largest  bee  that  grazes  near. 

Lift  the  saddle  down  with  speed, 

Let  your  skilful  hands 

Deck  with  plumes  the  gallant  steed 

Fit  for  my  commands. 

Ride  through  all  my  lands. 

Take  as  helm  a  silken  gay 

Chrysalis  of  silver-gray. 

If  you  hear  a  cradle  sway, 

Step  out  on  the  sill  of  tin. 

Raise  your  lamp  and  enter  in. 

(Mumble,  tumble,  bumble-bee!) 
Where  will  be  her  infant  bed. 
Where  the  crib  to  lay  her  head  ? — 
Aye,  the  little  one,  the  same 
Goldilocks  shall  win, 

115 


Cradle- 
Songs  of 
Goldilocks 


Who  will  share  his  life,  his  name. 
When  she's  found,  send  in 
Tidings  with  a  din. 
Blow  your  fairy  horn  with  power, 
Clarion  in  the  morning  hour. 
Wake  then,  guardian  of  my  bower, 
Seize  the  blue-bell  stalks  and  swing 
Until  every  one  shall  ring. 


III. 

Sift  the  golden  barley. 
Many  a  grain  is  not  of  gold, 
But  the  sieve  that  strains  them 
Always  then  retains  them. 
Soon  we've  half  the  sack  will  hold. 
But  to  whom,  now,  grant  it? 
Grain  is  for  the  miller's  box. 
Nay,  but  I  will  plant  it, 
And  my  garden  's  Goldilocks. 

Sift  the  golden  barley. 

When  the  seed  is  springing, 

Dream-sylphs  in  the  moonlight  fair, 

To  my  garden  winging, 

Pray  as  at  an  altar  there. 

Soon  the  leaves  are  rifted 

By  a  soldier's  leveled  spear, 

Golden  on  his  lifted 

Finger  starry  gleams  appear. 

116 


Sift  the  golden  barley.  Cradle- 

From  his  horse  a  lion's  hide  Songs  of 

Hangs.     A  thought  jon  star  is.  Goldilocks 

And  the  soldier  in  his  pride 

Envoy  from  afar  is. 

Dream-sylphs,  though,  that  hovered 

Pluck  the  barb  from  out  the  breast 

Which  thin  veils  had  covered 

Vainly  when  the  spear  was  pressed. 

Sift  the  golden  barley. 

Stained  with  blood,  the  tender 

Maidens  bend  the  spear  of  thought. 

Till  upon  their  slender 

Knees  to  rosy  harps  'tis  wrought. 

Of  the  star-beams  featly 

Next  they  spin  the  strings,  and  aye 

Through  his  lifetime  sweetly 

Unto  Goldilocks  will  play. 


IV. 

May  east  or  may  west  the  great  castle  be  spied 

Where  no  one  is  watching  or  dwelling? 

The  grumbling  rain  in  a  foamy  gray  tide 

From  the  rusty  roof-spouts  is  welling. 

Now,  weather-cock,  turn  in  the  wind  and  hark 

What  the  rain-spouts  sing  as  the  day  grows  dark. — 

"Hoohoo!"  comes  his  crow  out-swelling. 

117 


Cradle-         A  daughter  of  earth  came  merrily  up 
Songs  of       In  a  ship  that  with  bricks  was  freighted. 
Goldilocks   She  built  then  the  walls  from  cellar  to  top, 
While  her  tears  with  her  smiles  were  mated. 
A  pink  doll  sat  at  the  table  and  ate 
With  candies  instead  of  eggs  on  her  plate, 
"That 's  good!"  said  the  doll,  elated. 

While  the  doll  was  eating,  and  myrtle  was  strewed 

In  the  chamber,  our  queen  was  moving 

To  the  open  spinet  with  pensive  mood, 

Her  wide  eyes  wondrous  and  loving. 

On  the  lid  by  their  flocks  in  the  blossomy  spring 

Were  shepherd  and  shepherdess  reveling. 

"I  know,"  said  the  roof-stork,  approving. 

Deserted  since  then  is  each  stair  and  room. 

If  doubtful  she  turns  the  key  there. 

Amid  hats  and  cloaks  she  hunts  in  the  gloom 

For  what  memories  still  may  be  there. 

The  fairest  she  takes  in  her  arms  along 

And  weaves  of  the  memories  Goldilocks'  song. 

"That 's  life!"  cries  the  cock  with  glee  there. 

V. 

On  a  ferny  hill-crest  lo! 
Now  the  sun-ball  pauses. 
Goldilocks  and  mother  go 
118 


O'er  the  shining  mosses.  Cradle- 

Goldilocks  will  bravely  choose  Songs  of 

On  that  ball  to  journey.  Goldilocks 

Well,  put  on  3'our  wooden  shoes 
Or  the  sun  will  burn  ye. 

What 's  the  sun  ?    A  ball  of  wool 

Wound  when  threads  unravel 

From  an  overladen  spool. 

Now  it  starts  to  travel. 

Feel  the  winds  how  strong  they  blow! 

Nothing  you  can  hold  to. 

I've  the  thread  you're  tied  on,  though; 

Laugh,  then,  and  be  bold,  too! 

Off  the  ball  bounds,  far  abroad 
Golden  sparks  are  shaken. — 
Stubble  snaps  along  the  road 
Where  my  steps  are  taken. 
Whitened  boughs  like  monstrous  bones 
Here  the  earth  encumber. 
Hark!  it  seemed  from  yonder  stones 
Something  sighed  in  slumber. 

Now  a  dog  in  brushwood  dim 
Sniffs  and  starts  a-growling. — 
Off  in  space  beyond  Earth's  rim 
You  by  this  are  rolling. 
Where  's  your  laughter  taken  flight? 
Does  the  darkness  cover 

119 


Cradle- 
Songs  of 
Goldilocks 


Now  your  eyes,  with  starry  night 
Under  you  and  over? 

Apsarases,  nymphs  of  air, 

In  celestial  dances, 

Veiled  in  beams  of  moonlight,  bear 

Each  a  lamp  that  glances. 

Wrought  of  fragrant  cloud-stuff  they, 

When  the  gods  were  strewing 

Star-dust  of  the  Milky  Way 

For  their  nectar-brewing. 

These  go  searching  in  a  ring 

Never  far  asunder. 

And  each  lamp  's  a  world,  a  thing 

Fit  for  highest  wonder. 

But  your  ball,  with  whizzing  din 

Downward,  downward  gliding, 

Nears  an  isle  behind  a  thin 

Mist-spun  trellis  hiding. 

Blue  Elysium  lies  outspread 
By  the  myrtle  strand  there. 
You  may  roam  among  the  dead, 
Take  them  by  the  hand  there. 
Each  one  has  the  will  to  teach, 
By  his  lore  to  guide  you. 
In  your  life  thereafter  each 
Still  will  walk  beside  you. 
120 


Old  Diogenes  stumbles  out, 
Bow-legged,  brown  and  hairy, 
From  his  tub  with  raucous  shout: 
"Butterfly,  be  wary! 
You're  all  giddy  and  aglow; 
Water  's  in  the  sand,  lad, 
And  the  finest  cup  I  know 
Is  the  scooping  hand,  lad." 

Saladin  in   iron  coat 
Waits  you  swart,  each  crimson 
Ruby  gleaming  as  a  float 
From  the  lake  it  swims  on. 
"Though  my  iron  boots  are  meet 
For  no  small  foot's  wearing. 
Take  and  put  them  on  your  feet. 
See!  your  shoes  are  charring." 

Next  you  hear  the  Sibyl's  croak. 

All  her  mantle  's  yellow 

From  the  clouds  of  sulphur  smoke : 

"Soon  you'll  know,  young  fellow, — 

When  into  my  well  your  ball 

Drops,  with  sulphur  reeking, — 

What  the  nymphs  have  sought,  what  all, 

All  of  us  are  seeking." 

From  the  well  a  voice  oppressed 
Cries:  "With  ardor  many 
Men  gaze  into  their  own  breast. 


Cradle- 
Songs  of 
Goldilocks 


121 


Cradle-  Boy,  we  seek  for  any 

Songs  of       Child  who,  man,  shall  lift  the  sun 
Goldilocks   From  the  mists'  dark  hollow. 
Goldilocks,  if  you're  the  one, 
Lead  us,  and  we  follow!" 

Now  the  ball  has  gone  its  track 

To  the  farthest  tether, 

In  a  minute  I'll  wind  back 

Sun  and  you  together. 

Naked,  star-eyed,  you  alight. 

Your  hot  steed  forsaking. 

Well,  good-morning!     Day  is  bright. 

Goldilocks  is  waking. 


122 


A  MAN'S  LAST  WORD  TO  A  WOMAN.        A  Man's 

Love-dazed,  on  rosy  paths  I  sought  thee  far; 
That  was  the  spring,  my  gay  and  stormy  prime. 
Then  I  encountered  thee  with  smiles  and  war; 
Those  were  the  manhood  years  of  summer-time. 
I  thank  thee  for  the  joy  thy  presence  gave ; 
That  was  in  autumn,  when  the  bed  's  the  grave. 


123 


Hot  with  "HOW  EASILY  MEN'S  CHEEKS  ARE  HOT 
Wrath       WITH  WRATH!" 

How  easily  men's  cheeks  are  hot  with  wrath! 

In  haste,  with  little  knowledge  of  the  art, 

The  many  judge  the  individual  heart. 

But  every  heart  a  secret  chamber  hath. 

Thereto  a  door  whose  lock  no  key  will  turn. 

What  oil  the  lamps  within  that  chamber  burn 

Is  for  each  man  his  secret.     But  a  stream 

Of  light  goes  through  the  key-hole,  by  whose  gleam 

We  move  about  and  wake,  and  fall  asleep. 

It  leads  us;  to  our  journey's  end  we  keep 

Along  the  pathway  pointed  by  its  beam. 


124 


"GRANT  THAT  WE  DIE  YOUNG."  "Grant  That 

We  Die 

Give  the  full  happiness  our  tongue  Y  „ 

Would  quaff,  but  only  sips  in  stinted  measure ;  ^ 

Pour  us  a  brimming  draught  of  pain,  of  pleasure, 
And  grant  that  we  die  young! 

Man  doth  not  ever  find  amid  the  grasses 
A  plant  that  wind  and  frost  more  quickly  slay, 
Nor  doth  he  form  a  vessel  out  of  clay 
More  brittle  than  himself — so  soon  he  passes. 
What  though  he  build  the  structure  stone  by  stone 
Of  all  his  knowledge,  thought,  and  will,  and  yearn- 
ing? 
Ere  on  his  grave  the  grass  to  green  is  turning 
His  crumbling  temple  unto  dust  is  blown; 
Like  a  dry  branch  the  spire  is  overthrown. 

'Tis  day  as  yet,  and  joyful  songs  are  sung 
By  temple  maidens  dancing  on  the  mead. 
When  it  is  dark,  then  let  us  homeward  speed; — 
Oh,  grant  that  we  die  young! 


125 


Pilgrim's     THE  PILGRIM'S  YULE  SONG. 

Yule  Soiiq 

^  (From  "Hans  AHenus.") 

Autumn  rains  and  the  desert  sun 

Bleached  my  pilgrim's  attire. 

Just  at  cock-crow  my  day  was  begun 

Ere  yet  the  dawn  spread  higher. 

Slowly,  drearily 

I'd  be  trudging 

Swedenward,  and  not  until  eve 

Would  I  wearily 

Seek  for  lodging — 

Straw  by  the  hearth  is  what  they'd  leave. 

Tales  of  crusades  and  a  credulous  mood 

Guided  the  thoughts  that  stirred  me. 

Drawn  by  my  stories,  the  peasants  stood 

Hushed  at  the  door  and  heard  me. 

Women,  listening. 

Crowded  tightly 

Each  to  each  in  a  spell-bound  row. 

Sparks  were  glistening, 

Spouted  lightly 

Up  from  the  licking  flames  below. 

Pilgrim  adventures  along  the  road, 
Such  would  I  tell  unbidden. 
Never  the  blighting  flame  I  showed 
Deep  in  my  spirit  hidden. 
126 


'Tis  not  the  dutiful  Pilgrim's 

Holy  brother  Yule  Song 

Goes  concealed  in  the  cloak  I  wear. 

'Tis  not  the  beautiful 

Bright  God's-mother 

Who  is  the  queen  of  my  utmost  prayer. 

I  have  strayed  about  in  the  dread 

Region  of  Phantoms  lonely, 

Long  amid  bones  have  talked  with  the  dead, 

Wraiths  of  the  desert  only, 

Till  by  nearing  them 

Soon  I  proved  them. 

Sobs  and  laughter  we  came  to  share; 

And  from  fearing  them 

Last  I  loved  them, 

Sought  a  home  with  the  phantoms  there. 

Phantoms  possessed  me — in  lovely  sheen 

Rose  now  a  world  long  buried. 

Nineveh  maidens  with  wreaths  of  green 

Decked  the  stafiE  that  I  carried. 

Stars  had  a  shimmering 

Bible  clearness. 

Faint-sighing  music  around  me  stole. 

Till  with  a  glimmering 

Magic  nearness 

Old-time  beauty  entranced  my  soul. 

Sewn  on  my  cope,  the  mussel-shell 

127 


Pilgrim's     Roars  with  Ionian  surges. 
Yule  Sona  Echo  of  cymbal  and  drum  as  well 

Into  the  tumult  merges. 

Centaurs  with  ponderous 

Hoof-beats  ringing 

Carry  off  maidens  and  snort  in  pride. 

Terrible,  thunderous 

Laughter  and  singing 

Mark  the  time  of  their  galloping  stride: 

Faithless,  I  fled  the  land  of  shades, 

Longingly  turned  again  to 

Crowded  and  glittering  promenades — 

Nay,  but  that  was  in  vain,  too. 

Life-wards  wooing  me, 

Towns  and  lands  would 

Raise  around  me  their  loud  delight ; 

But,  pursuing  me. 

Spectral  hands  would 

Steal  across  and  obscure  my  sight. 

Freely  the  young  around  me  greet 

Ages  that  newly  awaken. 

I,  like  a  wraith  amid  all  I  meet, 

Move  on  the  road  I  have  taken. 

Moderns,  gallantly 

Bending  bows  of 

Sinew  and  steel,  shoots  words  apace; 

I  go  silently, 

128 


No  man  knows  of  Pilgrim's 

Him  who  strays  from  the  phantom's  place.  Yule  Song 

Never  can  I  with  my  old  delight 

Speak  of  the  hour  that  passes; 

Thoughts  will  be  groping  day  and  night 

Down  in  the  deep  crevasses, 

Where  no  flickering 

Torch  gives  other 

Light  than  a  subterranean  glare. 

Gaily  bickering 

Friend  and  brother 

Never  with  me  the  board  will  share. 

Screaming  cranes  have  already  flown. 

Snow-flakes  are  deftly  laying 

Bolster  and  pillow  on  ledge  and  stone, 

Windows,  the  huts  betraying. 

Shine  forth  clouded.     A 

Sparrow  is  winging 

Toward  the  barn  with  its  sheaves  of  wheat. 

Evening-shrouded,  a 

Boy  is  singing 

Yule-tide  songs  from  his  waggon-seat. 

Voices  of  childhood  years,  toward  you 
Now  through  the  snow  I  stumble; 
But  to  my  heart  you  have  lost  the  clue 
And  in  my  ears  but  mumble. 
Oh,  ye  cumberless, 

129 


Pilgrim's     Mild,  Elysian 

Yule  Song  Voices,  in  vain  would  you  soothe  my  soul. 

Threatful,  with  numberless 

Repetition, 

Scenes  of  Hades  before  me  roll. 

Lethe's  tide  makes  the  soul  forget; 

I,  blind  and  headlong-hearted, 

Drank  of  dark  Styx — and  my  gaze  was  set 

Only  on  times  departed. 

Pale  ghosts,  grieving  me, 

Lure  me  ever 

Only  to  dream  by  Charon's  flood. 

Gay  Life,  deceiving  me. 

Grants  me  never 

Fruits  that,  beckoning,  thrill  my  blood. 

Fettered  to  life,  I  roam  the  earth. 

Driven  without  cessation, 

Seeking,  but  finding  only  dearth, 

Stranger  in  every  nation. 

Hades  recaptured  me. 

Life  has  punished 

All  of  the  wraith-kind  who  came  her  way. 

Beauty  enraptured  me. 

Realms  long  vanished 

Won  my  soul  to  be  theirs  for  aye. 


130 


THE  SLUMBERING  SISTER.  Slumbering 

Sister 
Though  through  the  door  the  morning  sun  glows 

red, 

Yet  she,  our  cherished  one,  whom  all  night  long 

We  lulled  to  sleep  with  flute-notes  and  with  song 

Has  not  awakened.     Is  she  dead? 

Stifled  by  incense  fumes,  behold ! 
She  lies  here, — incense  that  our  love  of  old 
Burnt  to  her  as  around  some  holy  grave. 
Without  avail  we  sought  to  deck  her  form 
In  the  fair  robe  her  sister's  limbs  made  warm ; 
Cold,  it  slips  down,  the  garment  that  we  gave, 

And  leaves  exposed  her  lifeless  frame. 

She's  dead,  lo!  Sweden  was  her  name. 

'Tis  in  a  house  of  mourning  that  we  guest, 
And  funeral  ale  's  the  drink  with  which  we  feast. 
Deafly  she  slumbers,  chin  upon  her  breast. 
The  while  her  sister,  Norway,  in  the  west 
Rises  at  daybreak.     Hear  her  song  ascending! 
She  hails  the  new  day  till  we  all  have  wondered 
At  her  brave  words.    From  hundred  mouths  to  hun- 
dred 
Through  distant  regions  they  re-echo  still. 

But  she  whom  lue  love  sleeps  here  chill. 

Let  us  depart  and  no  more  waste  our  youth 
In  empty  funeral  speech  and  threnody. 

131 


Slumbering  Come,  break  your  flutes  to  pieces  on  your  knee. 

Sister  Who  would  play  music  to  the  dead,  forsooth ! 

We  do  not  lean  a  hot  and  feverish  head 
Upon  a  breast  that  death  makes  hard  and  chill. 
No,  in  life's  turmoil  we'd  forget  the  dead 
For  whom  of  old  our  hearts  with  love  could  thrill. 
We  seek  our  living  at  the  stranger's  gate. 
Men  ask:  "What  has  your  home-land  done  of  late? 
Is  not  her  fame  the  goal  of  your  ambition. 
Her  strife,  her  toil,  in  small  things  as  in  great?" 
Our  silence  tells  our  sharp  contrition. 

How  empty  year  succeeds  on  empty  year, 
How  comfort  palls,  wherever  we  may  roam. 
If  our  life  passes  far  away  from  home! 
But  of  our  flutes  we  build  for  her  a  bier 
And  lift  her  up  from  where,  supine,  she  lay, 
Whispering  softly  meanwhile  at  her  ear 
That  in  the  world  already  dawn  shows  clear. 
Her  borrowed  garments  then  we  cast  away. 
Remorsefully  we  tramp  out  with  our  tread 
The  incense,  bearing  her  with  songs  instead 

Out  of  the  stuffy  alcove  deep 
Unto  the  threshold  where  the  dawn  wind  blows. 
And  the  first  light  tinges  her  cheek  with  rose. 

She  is  not  dead;  she  does  but  sleep. 


132 


FliOzM  ''D^W  VOe^MS'' 


A  PEOPLE.  A  People 

I. 

The  People. 

(Cf.  Nahum  III,  18.) 

The  prophet  Nahum  speaketh  thus 
To  Nineveh,  to  Assyria's  king: 
"The  pilots  of  thy  people  slumber. 
And  each  one  of  thy  chieftains,  Prince, 
Dwelleth  apart  and  doeth  naught; 
Thy  scattered  people  roam  the  mountains, 
For  no  voice  ever  summoneth  them." 

I  tremble  at  the  word :  a  people ! 

So  full  of  song,  so  full  of  wailing, 

Of  thunderbolts  and  trump  o'  doom. 

I  shrink  together  at  the  word 

As  at  a  heaven-towering  giant. 

Whose  foot  is  crunching  in  my  ribs 

As  I  might  crunch  a  mussel-shell. 

A  people!     Toward  the  sky  it  flames. 

In  a  dark  valley  waggons  rattle. 

And  savage  men  in  wild-beast  skins. 

With  naked  children,  wasted  women. 

Plod  ever  forward,  ever  forward. 

Forgetful  of  the  roads  they  followed 

And  no  more  knowing  whence  they  came. 

The  children  ask,  but  no  one  answers. 

135 


A  People  There  rises  from  the  throng  of  elders, 

With  ice-gray  beard  and  shaggy  mantle, 

One-eyed,  a  raven  on  his  shoulder, 

And  sword  unsheathed,  a  wonder-man. 

He  motions  to  the  bards — and  sadly 

They  sing  of  their  forgotten  birthplace, 

When  midnight  stareth  on  the  tents. 

He  speaks — around  the  altar-stone 

That,  blood-smeared,  stands  beneath  the  oak-tree 

He  sets  new  images  of  gods 

And  stands  himself  as  god  among  them. 

Then  groweth  leaf-o'ershadowed  Birka,* 

Where  amid  oar-song  viking  vessels 

Cut  glad  the  waves.     On  yon  high  prow 

Stands  the  dread  fifty-winter  sea-king 

With  captured  bride  and  hails  his  home. 

Soon  speech  as  soft  as  festal  raiment 

Is  woven,  timed  to  gentler  breathing. 

Then  holy  bells  ring,  centuries  hurry 

Like  shadow  of  clouds  across  the  lands. 

Now  all  grows  still,  as  mournful-still 

As  when  a  limpid  St.  John's  Eve 

Sets  heavenly  glint  on  sound  and  bay; 

But  in  the  heart's  deep  secrecy 

Dwells  dread,  when  anxious  lips  are  silent. 

My  people,  though  your  hand  be  cold, 

*  Birka,  or  Birch  Island,  was  a  port  of  the  Vikings  near  to  where 
Stockholm  now  stands. 

136 


The  frost  that  chills  is  of  the  dawn.  A  People 

Your  pilots  slumber,  O  my  people, 
And  each  one  of  your  chieftains,  too, 
Dwelleth  apart  and  doeth  naught. 

II.        ^ 
Sweden. 

Oh  Sweden,  Sweden,  Sweden,  native  land, 
The  home  and  haven  of  our  longing! 
The  cow-bells  ring  where  armies  used  to  stand, 
Whose  deeds  are  story,  but  with  hand  in  hand 
To  swear  the  ancient  troth  again  thy  sons  are  throng- 
ing. 

Fall,  winter  snow!     And  sigh,   thou  wood's  deep 

breast ! 
Burn,  all  ye  stars,  from  summer  heavens  peeping! 
Sweden,  mother,  be  our  strife,  our  rest, 
Thou  land  wherein  our  sons  shall  build  their  nest. 
Beneath  whose  church-yard  stones  our  noble  sires 

are  sleeping. 

III. 

Fellow-Citizens. 

As  sure  as  we  have  a  fatherland 
We  are  heirs  to  it  one  with  another. 
By  common  right  in  an  equal  band, 
The  rich  and  his  needy  brother. 

137 


A  People  Let  each  have  his  voice  as  we  did  of  old 

When  a  shield  was  the  freeman's  measure, 
And  not  all  be  reckoned  like  sacks  of  gold 
By  a  merchant  counting  his  treasure. 

We  fought  for  our  homes  together  when 

Our  coast  by  the  foe  was  blighted. 

It  was  not  alone  the  gentlemen 

Drew  sword  when  the  beacons  were  lighted. 

Not  only  the  gentlemen  sank  to  earth 

But  also  the  faithful  yoemen; 

'Tis  a  blot  on  our  flag  that  we  reckon  worth 

By  wealth,  and  poor  men  are  no  men. 

'Tis  a  shame  to  do  as  we  oft  have  done, — 

Give  strangers  the  highest  places, 

But  beat  our  own  doors  with  many  a  stone 

And  publish  our  own  disgraces. 

We  are  weary  of  bleeding  by  our  own  knife, 

When  the  heart  from  the  head  we  sever; 

We  would  be  as  one  folk  with  a  single  life, 

Which  we  are  and  would  be  forever. 

^^^  V. 

Soldiers'  Song. 

Beat  the  drums  there,  boys !    Go  ahead,  make  way ! 

Hurrah  for  country  and  king! 

Hurrah  for  the  Riksdag,  where  old  men  stay. 

Pound  the  gavel  and  scratch  at  their  heads  all  day, 

138 


And  cough  and  blink  at  the  ceiling  so  gray  A  People 

Ere  they  let  the  gold-pieces  ring! 

But  when  it's  time  that  for  people  and  king 
Our  blood  on  the  snow  shall  run, 
They  don't  tie  a  man  with  a  money-bag  string, 
For  then,  young  or  old,  the  man  's  the  thing. 
All  right,  then,  comrades.     Strike  up  and  sing! 
We'll  be  as  one  people,  as  one. 

We'll  be  as  an  eagle,  faithful  and  dumb 

Mid  petty  clamor  and  clangor. 

When  the  thunder  rolls  at  the  beat  of  the  drum. 

Then  between  the  gray  crags  our  banner  shall  come. 

We'll  be  heard  when  we  swoop   from  our  rocky 

home 
And  yell  with  the  might  of  anger. 


VI. 

Invocation  and  Promise. 

If  the  neighbor-lands  three  should  cry:  "Forget 
Your  greatness  of  bygone  ages!" 
I'd  answer:  "Arise,  O  North,  who  yet 
May'st  be  what  my  dream  presages!" 
The  vision  of  greatness  may  bring  again 
New  deeds  like  those  of  our  betters. 
Come,  open  the  graves — nay,  give  us  men 
For  Science  and  Art  and  Letters! 

139 


A  People   Aye,  close  to  a  cliff  let  our  people  stand 
Where  a  fool  his  poor  neck  may  shatter. 
There  are  other  things,  men,  to  hold  in  your  hand 
Than  a  brim-full  Egyptian  platter. 
It  were  better  the  plate  should  be  split  in  two 
Than  that  hearts  should  rot  when  still  living. 
That  no  race  may  be  more  great  than  you, — 
That 's  the  goal,  why  count  we  the  striving? 

It  were  better  to  feel  the  avenger's  might 
Than  that  years  unto  naught  should  have  hasted, 
It  were  better  our  people  should  perish  quite 
And  our  fields  and  cities  be  wasted. 
It  is  braver  to  take  the  dice's  hap 
Than  to  mope  till  our  fire  is  expended ; 
It  is  finer  to  hear  the  bow-string  snap 
Than  never  the  bow  to  have  bended. 

I  wake  in  the  night,  but  I  hear  no  sound 

Save  the  waters  seething  and  churning. 

Like  a  soldier  of  Judah,  prone  on  the  ground, 

I  could  pray  with  passionate  yearning. 

I  ask  not  years  when  the  sun  shines  bright, 

Nor  for  golden  crops  I  importune. 

Kind  Fate,  let  the  blazing  thunderbolt  smite 

My  people  with  years  of  misfortune ! 

Yea,  smite  us  and  lash  us  but  into  one, 

And  the  bluest  of  springs  will  follow. 

Ye  smile,  my  folk,  but  with  face  as  of  stone, 

140 


Ye  sing,  but  your  joy  is  hollow.  A  People 

Ye  rather  would  dance  in  silk,  forsooth. 

Than  solve  your  own  riddle  truly, 

Ye  might  awake  to  the  deeds  of  your  youth 

In  the  night  when  ye  sorrow  newly. 

Then  on,  shy  daughter,  in  hardship  bred. 

Look  up  and  let  sloth  forsake  thee! 

We  love  thee  so  that,  if  thou  wert  dead, 

Our  love  could  once  more  awake  thee. 

Though  the  bed  be  hard,  though  the  midnight  lowers, 

We'll  be  true  while  the  tempest  rages. 

Thou  people,  thou  land,  thou  speech  that  is  ours, 

Thou  voice  of  our  souls  to  the  ages ! 


141 


A  Day  A  DAY. 


With  twinkling  stars  the  sky  is  crowned, 
Although  the  peasant  with  his  light 
Is  stumbling  on  his  farm-yard  round. 
Now  to  the  woods  with  deep,  soft  sound 
Goes  fluttering  the  Bird  of  Night. 
The  cottage  clock  is  striking  five, 
The  streak  of  morn  is  gleaming, 
The  factory  wheels  are  all  alive, 
The  fire  and  sparks  are  streaming. 

To  north,  where  pine-  and  fir-trees  float, 

The  earliest  rays  have  hurried 

To  tinge  the  heath.     A  cow-horn's  note 

Across  the  smooth  lake  is  carried. 

The  beams  now  touch  a  pale  white  peak, 

Or  on  some  torrent  settle 

That  frozen  hangs  on  ledges  bleak. 

Above  a  Lapp's  tent  whirls  the  reek, 

And  flames  leap  round  his  kettle. 

Out  on  the  snow,  with  branching  horns 

His  deer  stand  in  a  ring  there. 

No  house,  no  tower  yon  land  adorns. 

Nor  is  there  bell  to  sing  there. 

Night  seethes  around,  an  ocean  vast. 

For  all  things  come  to  night  at  last. 

Thou  sun,  whose  might  bestoweth 

On  each  least  plant  a  quickening  dower, 

142 


Grant  us  thy  bright  creative  power  A  Day 

As  long  as  day  still  gloweth ! 

Keen  is  our  heart,  but  time  is  short. 

Oh,  hark  to  our  imploring, — 

Thou  whom  our  fathers  once  would  court, — 

On  us  thy  radiance  pouring. 

Go  forth,  go  forth,  thou  new-born  day, 

With  morning-song  and  hammer-play. 

May  dusk-fear  come  not  o'er  us! 

Kindle  brave  strife,  our  hearth-stone  guard; 

Send,  lightning-like,  a  spirit  sword 

To  flash  the  road  before  us! 

Shine  far  across  our  folk  and  land, 

Make  rich  our  soul,  make  firm  our  hand, 

So  that  with  gladness  we  may  bear 

Such  years  as  age  shall  bring. 

And  still  like  sowers  onward  fare 

Into  the  world's  new  Spring! 


143 


End  of     AT  THE  END  OF  THE  WAY. 

^  Wise,  O  Man,  thou  only  shalt  become 

When  thou  winn'st  unto  the  evening  coolness 

Of  the  topmost  height,  the  Earth  o'erlooking. 

Turn  thee  at  the  ending  of  the  way, 

Rest  an  hour,  O  king,  and  look  behind  thee! 

All  is  clear  there,  all  is  reconciled. 

And  the  realm  of  youth  once  more  is  gleaming, 

Strewn  as  erst  with  light  and  morning  dew. 


144 


STARTING  ON  THE  JOURNEY.  The  Journey 

Already  I'm  upon  the  bridge  that  leads 

From  Earth  unto  a  land  beyond  my  ken, 

And  far  to  me  is  now  what  once  was  near. 

Beneath,  as  formerly,  the  race  of  men 

Praise,   blame,    and   forge   their   darts   for   warlike 

deeds; 
But  now  I  see  that  true  and  noble  creeds 
Even  on  my  foemen's  shields  are  blazoned  clear. 
No  more  does  life  bewilder  with  its  riot, 
I  am  as  lonely  as  a  man  may  be; 
Still  is  the  air,  austere  and  winter-quiet; 
Self  is  forgot,  and  I  go  forward  free. 
I  loose  my  shoes  and  cast  aside  my  stave. 
Softly  I  go,  for  I  would  not  defile 
With  dust  a  world  so  pure,  all  white  as  snow. 
Beneath,  men  soon  may  carry  to  a  grave 
A  wretched  shape  of  human  clay,  the  while 
Mumbling  a  name — 'twas  mine  once  long  ago. 


145 


JVe  Mortals  WE  MORTALS. 


We  that  hardly  meet  before  we  sunder, — 
Born  alike  of  clay,  alike  of  wonder, — 
On  life's  headland  where  the  tempests  rave, 
Shall  we  loveless  bide  till  fate  shall  summon? 
Solitude  awaits  us  all  in  common. 
And  the  same  sad  sigh  of  grass  on  grave. 


146 


THE  DOVE  OF  THOUGHT.  Dove  of 

Lone  the  dove  of  thought  goes  lagging 
Through  the  storm,  with  pinions  dragging 
O'er  an  autumn  lake  the  while. 
Earth  's  aflame,  the  heart 's  a-fever. 
Seek,  my  dove, — alas!  thou  never 
Comest  to  Oblivion's  isle. 

Hapless  dove,  shall  one  brief  minute. 
Flaming,  fright  thee  to  a  swoon? 
Sleep  thou  on  my  hand.     Full  soon. 
Hushed  and  hurt,  thou'lt  lie  within  it. 


147 


Moonlight  MOONLIGHT. 


'Tis  strange  that  I  sit  here  in  wakeful  mood, 
Though  day  has  brought  me  nor  joy  nor  gain; 
But  all  of  which  ever  my  life  was  fain, 
And  all  that  was  hidden  in  gloom  and  pain, 
Is  trembling  to-night  in  yon  silvery  flood. 


148 


MY  LIFE.  My  Life 

Glide  on,  my  life !     I  love  thee  not  so  much 

That  I  would  set  thine  hours  with  busy  care 

In  a  shop-window  for  a  common  show. 

I  never  say:  "Come,  press  the  master  hand 

That  lures  to  birth  such  wondrous  lovely  flowers!" 

When  I  have  been  betrayed  by  trusted  friends 
And  heavy  fortune  follows  in  my  path, 
I  do  not  bear  with  me  a  silver  cup 
Of  tears  and  say  to  him  who  passes  by: 
"Oh,  lay  thine  arm  about  my  neck  and  weep, 
And  pity  me,  and  let  us  both  lament!" 

0  thou  wide  world,  my  greatest  grief 
Is  but  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 

1  go  in  silence  to  my  grave. 


149 


Heaviest  THE  HEAVIEST  ROAD. 

Hard  do  you  press  on  me,  dark  hand, 

And  heavily  you  rest  upon  my  head. 

I  vowed  that  unlamenting  I  would  stand; 

Boldly  set  garlands  on  my  hair  instead. 

The  sorrow  of  the  old  is  other 

Than  bird-song  grief  in  springtime's  glow. 

Around  me  chilling  shadows  gather. 

The  heaviest  road  is  still  to  go. 


150 


ALONE  BY  THE  LAKE.  By  the  Lake 

Here  spread  the  waters  dark  and  deep, 
Where  now  your  ashes  are  lying. 
Oh,  tell  me,  my  father,  will  you  keep 
The  promise  you  made  when  dying? 
Then  rise,  O  wraith,  from  your  watery  grave, 
Speak  the  word  that  was  uttered  never. 
Oh,  give  the  token  that  none  yet  gave, 
If  the  dead  may  live  on  forever! 

From  the  dark  the  surf  rolls  in  its  foam, 
With  a  curve  of  white  it  enrings  me; 
A  storm-cloud  points  to  the  starry  dome, 
As  though  some  token  it  flings  me; 
But  the  desolate  night  is  hushed  in  gloom, 
And  naught  in  answer  it  brings  me. 

No  answer  for  him  who  does  not  see 

What  you,  ye  stars,  are  outpouring. 

I  am  one  with  you  from  eternity, 

With  the  winds  and  the  surf's  loud  roaring. 

Then  shine  for  me,  stars,  and  guide  me  on, 

For  you  are  my  father  since  he  is  gone! 


151 


Prayer   PRAYER  AMID  FLAMES. 

Amid      ^^  .    ^  .  .    ^         ,.     , 
pj  Jholy  bpirit,  1  worship  thee. 

Fire  and  Victor-Song  is  thy  name. 

Shine  in  our  need,  O  spirit  of  power, 

Shine  o'er  the  gulf  of  our  dread  last  hour, 

Burn  into  ashes  our  mortal  frame! — 

Even  in  death  mine  arms  shall  be 

Outstretched  in  prayer  to  thy  deathless  flame. 


152 


THE  JEWEL.  The  Jewel 

Happiness  is  a  woman's  jewel. 
Gods  remorseless,  fates  unsparing, 
Scanty  bread — aye,  that 's  the  cruel, 
Bracing  life  for  men! 


153 


U 


Shipwrecked  THE  SHIPWRECKED  MAN. 

Man  .  .        , 

After  the  storm 

Smilingly  he  warms  his  outstretched  hands 

Over  the  quickly  failing  fire, 

Lone  on  the  clii¥. 

With  the  morn,  embarked  on  his  fragile  raft, 

He  will  be  saved  or  die. 


154 


THE  WITCH'S  COUNSEL.  Witch's 

You  ask:  "Pray  teach  me  how  to  set  a  trap 
Within  whose  meshes  Fortune  may  be  caught." 
Sit  down  again,  my  child, — 'tis  lightly  taught — 
And  wait  with  folded  hands  across  your  lap. 
Each  day  the  butterfly  of  Fortune  swings 
Around  us,  seeking  us  on  wings  of  gold. 
But  who  can  teach  how  one  may  safely  hold 
The  butterfly  and  never  break  its  wings? 


155 


Norway's  NORWAY'S  FATHER. 

FcithcT 

On  the  Death  of  Björnstjerne  Björnson. 

The  late  light  falls  on  the  mountain  crest, 

The  sun  goes  royally  down  to  the  deep. 

Weep,  Synnöve,*  weep ! 

For  great  was  the  sun  that  sank  to  rest. 

Poet,  warrior,  to  strive  is  well. 

Thou,  sleeping  chief,  turnest  home  once  more, 

While  round  thy  ship  rolls  the  ocean  swell 

Toward  Norway's  crags  and  Sweden's  shore. 

It  was  brother-land;  it  is  stranger-land. 

We  were  hand  in  hand;  but  broken  the  band. 

Yet  the  soul  of  the  people  deep  within 

Still  breathes  the  eternal  brother-song. 

We  stand  and  gaze  at  the  sunset  long, 

And  grieve  for  thee  as  one  of  our  kin. 

*  Synnöve  is  the  heroine  of  one  of  Björnson' s  early  stories. 


156 


THE  BURIAL  OF  GUSTAF  FRÖDING.  Gustaf 

^     ,     ,  Frödinq 

rorth  they  go  -^ 

In  endless  procession 

One  by  one  with  their  silent  tread. 

Bells  are  tolling.     Deep,  slow, 

With  rumbling  vibration 

Singing  their  song  to  the  march  of  the  dead, 

I  hear,  as  I  sit  half-dreaming, 
The  bell-notes  that  beat  from  miles  away. 
All  of  our  land,  beneath  winter  gleaming, 
Hears  the  bells  as  they  ring  to-day. 
Summer  were  you  and  blossoming  spring, 
Sigh  of  the  reeds  by  lake-lapped  strands. 
Sleep,  O  singer,  whose  bier  they  bring 
Borne  by  a  thousand  hands. 

White  was  your  hair,  and  long  your  beard ; 
The  sun  shone  in  on  your  Bible's  page, 
And  you  in  your  bare-walled  room  appeared 
Like  Job  mid  his  ashes,  bent  with  age. 
How  wondrous  great  is  man's  destiny: 
Dreams  and  old  tales  and  the  flowing  sea, 
Floods  and  flames  and  the  choir  of  the  storm! — 
But  weak  as  a  reed  is  his  own  frail  form. 

Die,  die! — so  echoes  the  cry 

To  him  that  creates  with  yearning  passion. 

All  must  perish, 

157 


Gustaf      All  that  is  earthly  must  die,  must  die; 
Fröding  But  no,  'tis  himself  that  his  strong  hands  fashion. 

Pass,  O  bard,  erect  as  a  king. 

To  the  host  of  the  shades  through  the  darksome 

portal ! 
Still  we  cherish 

Your  limpid-silvery  notes  immortal. 
Singing  to  us  as  they  used  to  sing. 


158 


HOME-LAND.  Home-Land 

What  old  man  has  not  in  his  mournful  keeping 
The  smallest  thing  that  made  his  life  of  worth? 
He  sees  a  door,  a  woman  bent  and  weeping, 
As  toward  a  grave  the  young  man  journeyed  forth. 

He  recollects  each  room,  though  poor  and  base, 
Each  window-sill,  of  myrtle  faintly  smelling. 
How  should  the  heart  less  fervently  embrace 
The  land  that  is  our  home,  our  earthly  dwelling? 

They  stand  there  yet  by  lake  or  lone  morass, 
Red  cottages  and  manor-halls  majestic. 
Behind  yon  frosted  panes  our  sires  would  pass. 
And  Yule-tide  candles  glowed  with  joy  domestic. 

This  was  their  vision,  this  it  was  that  drove 
Their  hands  to  build  for  us,  the  coming  races. 
All  that  which  bound  them  unto  life  with  love 
Lives  yet  in  memories  round  their  vacant  places. 

By  the  same  hearth,  when  evening  shadows  come, 
We  speak  of  them,  some  childish  hand  caressing. 
O  thou,  our  native  land,  our  larger  home, 
Weave  of  our  lives  thy  glory  and  thy  blessing! 


159 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT   LOS  ANGELES 

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